All Through the Night
by WordyAF
Summary: When Brooklyn newsboys come of age they are given a choice between joining Dockside or fighting for their freedom. No matter what they choose, they won't leave as the same person they were. Marta thought it was over, that she saved Spot and herself long ago when she ruled Brooklyn, but when he is taken anyway and given his choice, she knows the fight has just begun.
1. Chapter 1

**October 14, 1901**

It was his seventeenth birthday, at least, that's what he told people since he had no clue when it really was. He liked October, when the cold came back, and the fourteenth was as good of a day as any. The smell of the cinnamon buns she made to celebrate after their supper hung in the air, heavy and sickeningly sweet. He didn't know why she did it, she knew he wasn't going to eat them. He didn't like sweet stuff, but she made them anyway. He didn't even take one, while the others wolfed them down, licking sugar glaze from their fingers like wild animals. He watched them, disgusted but mildly amused, until a ring of the front bell pulled him away. The boys deserved their treat.

The sun was setting behind the building and the blonde man on the stoop was bathed in golden light, but somehow seemed a faded shadow of a real man. His watery green eyes managed to be soft and sharp all at once as he looked Spot up and down in a way that the boy didn't appreciate. He felt disrespected and challenged in his own home and not a word had been spoken. The man was older, old enough to be any of the boys' parents and he had a worn out look to him, like he'd been left in the sun to fade. Spot crossed his arms over his chest and widened his stance like he did whenever there was a threat and waited with one eyebrow raised expectantly. He would not stoop to asking the man what he wanted, he knocked, it was his move. "You Conlon?" he asked gruffly. Spot nodded once, suppressing a smirk, but letting one hand drop to the came tucked in his belt loop. The man nodded. "Dockside's got your number, kid. Time to make your choice. Tell your housekeeper that Mick sends his regards and says that time is up." Then he turned and walked away. Spot's heart pounded in his chest dully as the man disappeared into the throng of people moving by to get home for supper.

Behind him, next to the desk where they all paid their six cents and signed into the register every night, his backup stood watch with his arms crossed and his thick black eyebrows knitted together. He stood nearly a whole head taller than Spot, and was almost two of the scrappy leader side by side. Trout Cooper was Spot's closest friend. The second longest standing newsboy in the lodging house And the only person Spot not only didn't mind snooping on him, but expected it of him. A second set of ears on things when shit went down was never a bad thing. "Don't say nothing," Spot warned him quietly knowing off of just a glance that his friend was turning the situation over and over in his head. Trout raised a brow, questioning the decision, but was glared into submission. "We'll figure it out later. You know how she gets about Dockside. Let her finish her party. She loves this shit and I don't wanna ruin it for her." Trout's face pinched in silent disagreement, but he wasn't the type to argue. Not with Spot. They entered the dining room as the older boys began to file into the kitchen with their dirty plates and forks and the younger ones went to the school room to start their lessons.

A quick, loud whistle with his fingers in his mouth from Trout got the attention of the second in command, Nips, across the room, telling the tall, lanky blonde to follow them outside. Marta, the house manager of the Brooklyn Newsboy's Lodging house, looked up at the shrill sound and her hazel eyes met Spot's for a moment as she grinned like a child and sucked glaze from her thumb. Her mahogany hair was piled up on her head, save a tendril or two that came undone and her face was flushed with happiness. She loved birthdays and she did everything she could to make sure that her boys, who all had to grow up long before their time, still had those little moments to remind themselves that they were just kids. He rolled his eyes, his mouth bending into a lopsided smile. She was crazy, but that was part of her charm, part of why they were family, because she was crazy enough to care about him.

He waited for the other two, staring up between the buildings at the velvety sky, lit with the last colorful ribbons of a fall sunset, an unlit cigarette hanging between his lips. The scratch of a match striking against the bricks pulled him out of his thoughts. Nips held the flame up for him and he sucked in the smoke before turning his eyes back upward. They gave him his silence, his moment to gather and compile what just happened before Trout gave him a nudge with the back of his hand. "What's going on, Boss?" Nips asked. "You pulled us away, what's the word?"

He pulled in a deep lungful of smoke and took his time pushing it back out in a stream. His brain was loud, too much going on inside his skull. "Dockside is sniffing around," he murmured, taking another drag and blowing a few wobbly smoke rings. "They knew its me birthday. They knew Marta is still here. I ain't letting them get to her. I need you two to keep your ears open. I'm having a bird stick with her, if she needs you, you get there."

Trout and Nips looked at each other, and Nips said, "What about you, Boss? What do we do about Dockside?"

"For now? You wait. Keep your ears to the ground and wait for orders."

Trout's heavy brow furrowed and he pointed at Spot. "'I dunno what I'll do," he snapped. "She said they wouldn't come. I gotta get more information. I need time." He glared at the two people he considered friends in the whole world. He didn't trust most people enough to consider them friends. Trout and Nips made the cut because they proved they didn't want anything back.

Late that night, he slipped quietly down the stairs in stockinged feet, his red suspenders hanging down his sides. His eyes were shadowed and heavy with exhaustion but he couldn't sleep. His worry about all the information he didn't have and his need to keep Marta safe kept sleep from finding him and was pulling his pants on over his long johns and walking out the door before he really knew what he was doing. The smell of butter and sugar and cinnamon still hung in the air like a veil. She never slept much, it was one of the few things that time never changed. He padded as silently as he could down the plank floors, knowing where to step to avoid the loudest creaks. He should know them, he'd walked these floors for more than ten years; no one but her, had been there longer than him.

The soft glow of lamplight spilled out from under the door and he paused to listen to her hum to herself. She only hummed when she was sewing, claiming that it was the only way to keep herself from falling asleep during the tedious task. He always liked to listen to her sing, it was the sound that soothed him to sleep as a small boy when nightmares haunted him. "I can see your feet, you know," her soft voice called out. The left corner of his mouth lifted, years didn't change a person so much that she would ever let her guard down. He pushed the door and poked his head in. "Price of entry is one holy sock for me to mend." She pointed at his foot, where his big toe peaked out of his ragged brown sock.

"I think this ones a lost cause, Marta," he answered, sheepishly shuffling his feet back and forth against her worn rag rug, avoiding her hazel eyes. He couldn't look at her, she always knew him better than he knew himself. "There's more darn to it than sock. If you patch it much more, it wont fit me foot anymore."

"Check the basket there for a new one then." She nodded her head to the little basket at her feet. He dug through the scores of socks in every shape color and size, all washed and mended to be recirculated as their fallen brothers made it to her wash and mend pile. She watched him dig with a soft smirk on her tired face. Her skin was still fair, despite years of her youth being spent in the sun and grime of the city. Her peaches and cream skin was improved, not marred by the hundreds and thousands of light freckles that adorned it. "While you're at it, check the bin for some new pants. That pair is too short for you; you look like you're waiting for a flood and I doubt those have anything left to let down in them."

He looked up at her, his blonde hair falling over his still roguishly boyish face and scowled. Those eyes, sometimes steely and grey and sometimes the lightest of blues blazed at her audacity, but she just laughed, her pale cheeks pinking up. "Longer pants. NOW." She gave him her own cool steady look, daring him to cross her. Her dark brown hair was still twisted up loosely on her head, but the length of her day was showing by how much of it fell around her face and neck in wisps and curls.

He trudged over to the pile of mended clothes and found a pair of pants that draped all the way to his toes when he held them up to his hips. "There. Happy?" he grumbled. "Damn woman."

She was out of her chair and standing menacingly close to him before he turned all the way around. "You watch how you talk to me," she warned, her voice suddenly low and soft, a mere murmur, reminding him of exactly who she once was. "I take a lot of shit from you and your boys without a word, but YOU don't disrespect me." The worn but still fashionable cranberry colored skirt and the trim shirt waist might make her look like a respectable middle class lady, and she might wear her hair piled on her head instead of down her back in a braid but she was still Kisser underneath it all. Once upon a time, she was the leader of Brooklyn. Back then, she would never have scrubbed floors or made soup, but she could always be depended on for a kind ear and a scrap of bread in her pocket. The woman and the boy stood, facing off in steely silence. His eyes dropped to the floor first, but he didn't apologize, not ever, not to anyone. Still, he rocked on his heels and picked at his cuticles avoiding her steady gaze.

She stood, all of the barbs in her stance dropping and she smiled as she realized that they were the same height now, roping him back in with her calm voice. The years taught her exactly what volume to use to snare their attention without fail. "Never ever forget where you came from kid," she said, the Brooklyn drawl coming out thick. It was natural to her, the clipped tone and biting accent. She always spoke correctly, never using the street slang, but there was no taking Brooklyn out of her. "You and I know better than most what happens when Brooklyn newsboys get cocky. They get noticed. Trust me, you don't want to be noticed. You got a great knack for being invisible when you want to be, and this is a time when you should want to be. You're seventeen now, if they're going to come, it will be soon." His eyes grew wide and she reached her hand out to push his shaggy hair out of his face, smiling at the way he shoved her away. She was the the touchy one, he hated it, but she still tried. "I wont let it happen all over again, so you watch yourself, Spot."

He shook himself out of the stupor she put him in and flopped down, sitting cross legged on the floor. "I ain't gonna end up like the rest, Marta."

"Aren't you?" she asked, gracefully lowering herself back into the rocking chair and picking up a shirt to begin mending. "Can you really say that with all of this 'King of Brooklyn' bullshit?" Something else flashed across her face, something like fear when she said 'king of Brooklyn.' She kept herself so guarded, especially from him that he couldn't decipher the look and it was gone as quickly as it appeared. It drove him crazy. "You know they watch you, you've always known. Why would you set off the flash pots and cherry bombs to let them know exactly where you are?" Her eyebrow raised piously, but she never looked up from the shirt. She taught him everything she knew about finding out what people were hiding, and knew exactly how to hide what she didn't want him to see from him.

He looked up at her from his place on her floor, "What do I do?" His voice was small and lost, not at all the arrogant bark the boys upstairs were used to hearing. She was the first person who ever gave a damn about him and thought he could be something more than just another street rat.

"I can't tell you what to do," she answered simply, gently tugging thread through the eye of a needle.

He snorted, "Really? Never stopped you before."

She tried to hide her amusement behind a scowl but failed miserably. After a deep breath she explained herself, "You have to decide what you want. I can't pick for you. If you want to be the immortal King Of Brooklyn, then you change nothing. But, if you don't like the idea of having to turn against everything you know, everything you believe in because the man slipping coins in your pocket says you believe otherwise, then you slow your roll and calm your swagger a bit. You soak who you have to to keep your boys safe, but otherwise you keep your nose clean and save your pennies so that when its your time to go you can go anywhere you like, free as a bird, and escape this hellhole." Another flash, another expression he couldn't read because she wouldn't let him.

"Why didn't you go?"

For a long while she din't answer, pretending to be very absorbed in choosing a patch for the elbow of the shirt that she had yet to put a single stitch into. He looked back down at his hands and chewed his fingernails, black with printer's ink, to the nubs. "Scat made his choice and I made mine. Now we both have to live with that," she finally whispered, her voice wavering with emotion long since bottled up and fermented over the course of time.

"I'm not gonna be like him, Marta," he said, his voice fiercely determined. "I won't let you down."

She smiled sadly again. "You can't do it for me, or for the boys." She rubbed her eyes and let her statuesque shoulders slump. "You have to make yourself proud of the man the man that you are." She gave him a good once over. He was still scrawny, still angry, still hungry just as he was when he was the little boy permanently attached to the pocket of her trousers. She stood, and placed her basket neatly next to her chair, but then cocked her head to one side and stared at him thoughtfully. "You were prowling outside the door earlier when I caught you. Did you ned something?"

"Nope," he answered, fighting a smile and an embarrassed flush to his cheeks, "Sometimes, I just need to hear you yap before I can sleep." His face went stony as he realized what he just admitted. "But I'll deny it and tell everyone you's going senile if that leaves this room."

"Senile!" she laughed. "I'm not even thirty, and you act like I'm some old crone!" Thirty was an age where people had jobs and families, it was a lifetime away from selling papes and running territories. When he was thirty, he wouldn't have gang bosses blowing smoke up his ass. He'd beat them at their own game, just like she did. "Your reputation is safe with me, no one will know that Spot Conlon is a big softy."

"Shaddup," he growled, standing up with his new pants and new sock thrown over his narrow shoulder. The room smelled like her, like her hair did when she tucked him in at night as a small boy and her thick braid would fall over her shoulder onto his face and he stood, digging his toes into the rag rug breathing it in, the presence of the only comforting person he'd ever known. He reached out, letting the linen of her shirt brush his knuckles before changing his mind and pulling back. He had to keep his distance for now so that he didn't hurt her more when he did what had to be done.


	2. Chapter 2

**May 1888**

Marta Gatcyk was a walking, talking, smart mouthing and back-talking bag of trouble, but still the younger girls at the convent school of Most Holy Trinity looked up to her like she could do no wrong. She was always being punished for something, usually running away or running her mouth. She hadn't eaten in two days and her blanket had been taken away the night before so that she could "better contemplate the suffering of others." She stood with the other girls at morning prayers, swaying on her feet. She was tired, hungry, covered in switch lashes from her shoulders to the backs of her knees. Admitting her pain to anyone meant that the old witch won in some small way, and Marta couldn't allow that. She took every punishment with a smirk and snide comment, because she knew that when she pushed the Abbess to rage, she won. She wobbled again, but set her jaw and took another deep breath in through her nose, she would not collapse in the chapel in front of everyone. She could not. She had to make it to breakfast. This grudge match had been going on since turned ten and decided she was grown. She began to sneak out whenever she could and the Abbess was livid that the girl could so easily evade herself and the other sisters and make her way into the city. Unfortunately for Marta, her swagger and bold personality made quite an impression on the people that she met once she was out, and the police officers were getting quicker and quicker to return her to the Sisters' custody.

As they stood in line to file into the dining room for their breakfast Sister Agnes' wrinkled and bony hand grasped gingerly around her upper arm, pulling her from the line. "You'll be assisting the sisters and I to feed the street children this morning," the old Nun said in a shaking voice. She smiled, she was a nice old bird, and seemed to be a little more amused by Marta's fire than some of the others. Marta stared at her wearily, knowing that she wouldn't be getting breakfast again. Reverend Mother was letting her outside of the gates willingly, yes, but on a stomach so empty she could barely stay upright. This was a dare, a challenge, and she couldn't back down. "We'll leave from the front gate in five minutes."

"Yes, Sister Agnes," the thirteen year old answered obediently. As much as she wanted to lay down and die, she wouldn't. She would take her punishment with pride and she would glare at the Reverend Mother when she returned.

The baskets of bread and apples and the large, washtub sized pot of weak coffee let off smells that made her stomach rumble and her mind reel as they made their way out of the convent gates. The sun was just rising, chasing away the last bits of grey from the sky. "Marta," Sister Agnes called. The girl's hazel eyes looked greedily at the basket of bread, its aroma making her feel crazy with hunger. "That bread is for the street children. Get up on the cart and hand it down with the other sisters. If you behave yourself I will make sure you get something to eat when we get back. In order for me to do that, your feet can not touch the cobblestone, do you hear me?"

"Yes, Sister Agnes, not a single toe." The cart stopped, the sisters began to sing and suddenly the cart was surrounded by ragged, pale children with their hands outstretched. Newsboys, bootblacks, factory children and children who slept on the streets all hoping for just a bite to take the edge off their hunger. She handed out apples into out stretched hands until her vision got blurry around the edges.

"Are you all right, Sister?" a kind voice asked.

She barely made out the words through the high pitched whine in her ears. "I'm not a nun," she muttered as she felt her body pitch forward.

When she woke, the ringing was still loud in her ears. A boy with dark brown hair and deep, green eyes was leaning over her, his long, tousled bangs falling in his face. He grinned widely, the biggest, most honest smile she had ever seen and she couldn't help but turn her own lips up a bit. She tried to roll to her side, but he stopped her, "Whoa, easy there. You'll fall right off." She groaned and squinted up at him in confusion. He grinned again. "You told me your feet couldn't touch the cobblestones," he answered. His voice was low and quiet, but kind. "Actually, you kinda threatened me. I put you on a bench since I didn't want a second punch." This boy made no sense. She didn't remember saying that and she certainly didn't remember punching him, but as her vision cleared a bit more, she saw the telling red mark near his mouth. He caught her looking and grinned again. "Right in the kisser. You've got a mean backhand. I never been socked by a nun before" She smiled again, and took a deep breath as her empty stomach gave a threatening flip.

"I'm not a nun," she answered, her tongue feeling to thick for her mouth that felt like sandpaper. She pinched and held up her much hated grey apron, "See, pinafore, not habit." He chuckled under his breath.

"Marta," Sister Agnes called, coming into view behind her catcher's shoulder. She met her gaze, cringing against whatever punishment might be in her future. She was too hungry to be defiant anymore. She had to save her strength for Mother Abbess. "Sit there until we are finished and recover yourself. Do. Not. Move."

"Aye, aye Sister," She croaked cheekily, saluting. The boy hid a snicker as the elderly nun tsked and went back to her work.

"Mouthing off to a nun," he mused once she was gone, "I'm impressed." He offered a large hand to her. It was callused and cracked with dirt and ink pressed deep into the grooves of his skin. By his baby face, he wasn't much older than her at thirteen.

"She's harmless," the girl answered, taking his hand and allowing him to pull her upright. "She's one of the few that like me." Her head swam and she ducked it low.

"Whoa, there, no more fainting!" he warned, steadying her shoulders. "You ain't sick or nothing, are you?"

"Nah," she answered, trying to stop herself from sounding so sickly, "just shaky. Reverend Mother hasn't felt very motivated to keep me fed since I got back from my latest adventure. Seems she likes my attitude better when I haven't eaten for a few days." He looked down, deep in thought. His dark, thick brows furrowed under the brim of his cabby hat.

He sucked his bottom lip in and blew out a shrill whistle. As if by magic, four boys were at his side. "What gives, Scatter?" one asked. "You gotta thing for nuns now?"

"I AIN'T a nun," she snapped, but quickly had to steady herself with her hands.

Scatter sent a smaller boy back to the cart to get a piece of bread for him while the other boys questioned him silently. "Gather 'round tight so the nuns can't see her," he said in a whisper, as if the nuns were going to hear him. They didn't question why, they just circled around the bench shoulder to shoulder and kept up a raucous stream of conversation to entertain her until the little boy returned with a fistful of bread and Scatter handed it to her. "Eat up," he whispered.

"Its for you," she said pushing it back. "If I take it, it means that I couldn't hack Mother Superior's punishment. Sister Agnes is already going to tell her I passed out, so she already will get a kick out of that. I can't let her win." The five boys looked at her with a mix of awe and admiration on their faces.

"We're covering you," one of the others said as Scatter pushed the bread back to her. "They can't see nothing, just eat. Couple bites of bread ain't gonna fill you up." Scatter watched her intently as she broke the bread into two pieces and shoved the second half in the pocket of her pinafore. She couldn't stop herself from ravenously tearing into the other half. He was right, it was two bites, enough to take her back to the wobbling wreck she was in chapel that morning. She had another hour or so before she would be back at the point of fainting.

"Thank you," she murmured. "Did you five get some?"

"All of us but Scat," the little one said, "He was too busy catching girls falling off of wagons." They all snickered and Scatter blushed.

Before they could say another word, Sister Agnes was pushing between the wall of boys and pulling her charge to her feet. Marta put her hand in her pocket, concealing the bread she didn't eat, and held it out to Scatter. He took her hand in a daze while the other boys hooted. "Thanks a lot," she called, letting go of his hand as she was pushed onto the cart, and winked. He looked down at his hand in confusion and then back to her grinning face. She knew he gave up his chance at some of the food to sit with her. "Heroes who save distressing damsels deserve something in their stomachs to go about their day," she called before she steeled herself, ready for battle.

"See ya 'round, Marta," he called, a stunned look on his face as he continued to look back and forth between her and the bread in his hand.

"Don't I wish," she muttered.

**July 1889**

That was more more than a year ago. Again, Marta was dealing with the consequences of using her sharp tongue on the Reverend Mother. Constance was trying to clean the newest crop of switch lashes, but the sound of the other girls tittering was grating on the fourteen year old patient's already ragged nerves. "What are those twits going on about?" she growled irritably with her face down in the blankets. She looked over to the window where the younger girls were giggling madly at something down on the street.

Constance got up and and flounced across the room, her ugly grey pinafore swinging side to side. She shoved the flock of younger girls out of the way to see what was causing the fuss and an unamused frown wrinkled her pretty face when she turned back around. "You've got company, thats what." Her blond hair was put in two braids even though she was far too old for it. She and the others like herself and Marta who were nearing the age where they would either be sent to the factories to work and find husbands or would be farmed into the convent were all too old for pigtails and pinafores, but it was what they had and what they were told to make do with. Marta's cinnamon brown hair was shorn close to her head like a boys the previous year because her tight curls followed suit with the rest of her and refused to behave as they were expected to. After a year it only reached her shoulders.

Marta grunted as she stood, letting her nightgown fall to cover the oozing cuts on her back and the small gaggle of girls parted easily to let her limp up to the glass. Outside the window, a quartet of raggedly dressed, dirty, grinning boys stood outside the gate wailing a crude song at the tops of their lungs. All the girls looked to Marta as she gaped at them with her mouth hanging open for a moment before regaining her composure. "Those fools are going to get themselves jailed," she scoffed, but a big smile was threatening to break her stone faced leader act. His friends laughed at him and they began to scuffle and play with each other until he yelled again, "Kisser, come down! We never have any fun without you! If you don't come down, I'll have to find another girl to tell me what an idiot I am." He held his cabby hat over his heart and grinned up at her, making her pulse race.

"Go home!" she hissed as one of the sisters came hustling out of the house and into the shadowy yard. "Get going before they call the bulls on you!" She paused a moment, and got a desperate gleam in her hazel eyes, after the round of punishments she endured that day, she needed out. "Hey Scat?" he turned and grinned up at her as he jogged backwards, "Is it a good night for a fishing trip?"

She faintly heard his deep laugh waft up from the street, "Seems a bit warm for fishing!" With that, he took off running, but she knew he would be back. He'd be waiting for her on the other side of the fence under the apple tree after lights out. The younger girls sighed dreamily at the interaction, and Marta rolled her eyes. "Don't any of you get swoony over them; they're nothing but trouble." But when her back was to the girls, she was all smiles.

She waited until everyone was in bed and bed checks had been made before she snuck to the washroom and slipped a skirt and shirt, careful not to brush the fabric against her raw, welt-covered skin. Scatter had nicked the street clothes for her a few months before so that she didn't have to be seen in her school dress outside the gates. Being out of her school uniform gave her the freedom to walk around the city. She preferred to sneak in and out of the school on her own terms, not be dragged back by the police. Sneaking out as often as she did and with a personality as loud and boisterous as hers, she needed all the help she could get to not get noticed by the beat cops. She tucked the back hem of the skirt between her legs and up into her waistband so she could easily slip out the window and shimmy down the drainpipe. While breeches would be far more practical, she loved the feeling of her skirt swishing about her ankles while the boys whirled her about a dancehall floor.

True to his unspoken word, Scatter was there waiting on the opposite side of the fence in the shadow of the apple tree when she boosted herself over. He kissed her hand with a wink and they took off together through the dark streets until he pulled her into the open door of a dance hall. The lights were bright and the air was hot, humid and smoky. Sweat, cigar and a hundred different notes of perfume and aftershave filled their noses as they breathed in the heady air. "Ready, Kiss?" he yelled over the din of music and laughter. His grin, missing a tooth on top from the day she earned her nickname by giving him a hard left jab right in the kisser, beamed. She gave him a wink and he swept her into the crowd of dancers quicker than a flash. One dance after another, they flung around until they were drunk off of it all and had to sit down. They drank pints of beer and laughed with the people sitting around them until they could breathe again. Then they were back on the floor for more.

The music slowed and his hand at her waist tightened and pulled her in more closely. She cried out in pain before she could clap her lips shut. He searched her embarrassed face for answers, and his confusion brought her to tears. She was normally more one for defiance and curse words, jabbed elbows and shocking slang than tears, but there was no one to fight and the tears were coming with or without her permission. She sucked in the hot, fragrant air, desperate to calm herself. "I can't go back, Scat. Its killing me," she whispered. "There has to be someplace that I make sense!" She cried into his jacket feeling like such an idiotic weakling. His shirt smelled like dirt and soot, sweat and soap. The material was rough and worn, the tweed of his vest was frayed and pilled. It sounded so silly, so frivolous, to be telling a boy who whose boots were hardly still stitched together that she wasn't made for a life where she always had a roof over her head and the opportunity for food in her belly, but she wasn't built for captivity. She was made to be free out in the sun and the wind, out where her wild ways and loud mouth didn't seem so outrageous.

"What did she do this time?" he asked in her ear, keeping his voice low soon one else could hear. The muscle in his arm tightened around her, even though his grip stayed lax to keep the pressure off her wounds. His low growl of a voice held more empathy and understanding than anyone had shown her in her short life. "How bad is it?"

"Switch, no meals, extra duties, the usual," she muttered.

"I asked how bad it is."

She grimaced as his hand brushed over her skin. As the sweat from their fun ran down her back, even the lightest of touches became agonizing. "Worse than normal."

"Why didn't you say nothing? You was just gonna let me keep clutching on you while you's hurt?"

"Its my own fault, if I could keep my damn mouth shut for ten minutes or let someone else get in trouble I'd be better off."

"But you wouldn't be you if you did that. The day you stop butting into other people's problems and taking beatings without a whole buncha mouth is the day that I know your light went out." She looked up at him questioningly. "Your light's not goin' out, you's coming with me because you make sense with me."

She leaned into him and breathed him in. She'd been in love with him since the first time she met him only a year before. A fat lip and a scrap of bread brought them together. There in the hot, smoky dance hall, she sighed and tucked her head under his chin, comforted, if only momentarily, reveling in knowing that he felt the same way, that they made sense together. It calmed some of the panic in her gut. She snuggled in deeper and let out a contented sigh. "You're so stupid," she murmured, a soft smile gracing her face.

He chuckled, the reverberation further calming her as it rumbled through her body and he rested his chin on top of her head. "Yeah, Kiss, I love you too, crazy, mean-ass wench."


	3. Chapter 3

**October 18, 1901**

When she was a girl, she was so happy to be free, to be unleashed in the streets of Brooklyn, filling her lungs with brackish, sooty, sour air instead of the stale, incense thickened stuff in the school that she couldn't help but skip and twirl as she called out the day's headlines. She made sense out in the loud, brassy Brooklyn streets. She wasn't too loud, Brooklyn was always louder and she wasn't too wild, Brooklyn had a life of her own that was always bustling. She ran the streets, yelling out the headlines and crashing into people on purpose as she walked for no other reason than because she liked the extra interaction with people. Talking with and walking among other people, after so much time alone as a child, helped her think and sort out her feelings. Her brain worked better in the din of the busiest squares. It was a dance that no one understood but her, choreographed to the sound of the streets of her Brooklyn. Headlines, hawkers, drunks and buskers with a bass beat of feet pounding cobblestone and crates and barrels hitting wagon beds. She would yell the headlines as shoulders brushed against hers and other boots trampled her toes. She still felt it all these years later, but she didn't dance anymore. Some of that light, that freedom, was stolen from her when she was seventeen, and she still mourned it's loss. The streets still invigorated her, though. That spirit, that brash, bawdy, rough way of her city fed her and let her push on for a bit longer. Those streets helped her be strong for her boys. She pushed her way through the crowds, smiling and making conversation with acquaintances and strangers alike as she picked up the groceries and dry goods that she needed to keep the boys of Brooklyn fed. She picked through the vendor stalls, more for the people than the produce, and ended up with a large braid of onions, a few cabbages and a bunch of turnips in her large market basket with the soup bones she picked up from the butcher.

She was picking through wares of trader, touching a hair comb made of tortoise shell. It was lovely, with a scene of swooping sparrows painted on the plaque in black ink and gold paint. She gently ran her fingers over it. It was missing one of it's tines, but she couldn't resist it. Her hair was so curly that it was like a wild vine anything, sucking things into it's depths and lot letting go. As she handed over the nickel that the man was asking, three shrill staccato whistle notes followed by a long low note cut through the din of the bustling marketplace, a bird call, a Brooklyn bird call. One of Spot's little birdies was sending her a message, she was being followed. She whistled a return to her bird, wondering how long Spot had been having her followed and how she never noticed. The looping melody she whistled instructed her bird to stick close and keep his or her eyes open.

Spot was the best lookout she ever had, the original little bird. His quiet way and sharp eyes saw things that other people didn't see. He sold his papers and caught all sorts of things that she never would have known about because no one knew he was there. His nearly silent feet and small stature made him invisible on the busy streets. Her brain occupied itself with the people around her. She was forever talking and laughing, solving problems by speaking and doing. Spot filled her in on what she missed while she was busy with her duties as a leader...as well as what she missed when she was too busy mauling Scatter with affection in an alley. Back then, she was addicted to him. He was a part of her freedom, her sense of self that she rarely went more than a few hours without seeking him out. His lips were better than any drug or drink and she needed them. His sultry voice, tender lips and strong arms paired with his sunny, easy going disposition kept her going. She needed him draped around her like she needed food in her belly, air in her lungs and sunshine on her back.

Her tail was close enough now that she could hear him behind her. She adjusted her market basket and sauntered back towards the river and the lodging house at a casual pace. If she only knew one thing about herself, it was that Kisser Gatcyk didn't play cat and mouse in alleys. She didn't back down from confrontation and she didn't hide behind boys and rely on them to fight her fights for her. A small voice in her head sneered, "Kisser didn't play cat and mouse, but Marta might. Marta is just a housekeeper, just a lonely old maid." As much as she wanted to ignore the voice, she couldn't say for sure that it wasn't telling the truth. Could Marta tap into the bravery that just came innately to Kisser before it was so brutally beaten out of her? Marta didn't have to be brave. Marta mostly stayed inside of the lodging house scrubbing toilets and darning socks; she never needed to protect herself from more than a pickpocket or a self righteous man who thought it was his right to give her ass a squeeze as she walked by. With her heart jumping up into her throat with every beat, she turned off from the main street and abruptly stopped and dropped her parcels and whistled high-low, high-low, asking for help, before she turned to face the person who followed her all that way.

He was tall, broad and while his clothes weren't expensive looking they were store bought and clean. His pocket watch hung on a chain that draped from his vest button to the pocket and his bowler hat was pulled low over his eyes. "Got a message for your leader, missy," he said in a smooth baritone that sent shivers down her spine. He stepped in closer to her and the loneliest and saddest part of her wanted beg him to hold her, to run his finger along her jaw, just touch her and talk to her. His voice, so low and smooth lit a fire in her belly that she thought had been put out for good. No other man she met had been able to rekindle it.

"My leader?" she asked incredulously. "Do I look like a newsboy or a thug to you? I don't have a leader, I'm just a woman running a business." He stuck her chin out and set him with a cool look from her light hazel eyes, a look that most boys and even a few men cowered under, but he just frowned, unphased by her her show of dominance. It was thrilling. She was so used to being the scariest thing in the room when it came to the boys that the challenge he present piqued her interest.

"You know who I mean. The little King."

"If you want him, why are you here talking to me? Go tell him, I'm just the housekeeper." She spit at his feet and rolled her eyes, baiting him. "I have enough rowdy newsboys to deal with without full grown men thinking they have power over me. Go bully someone else, or better yet, tell your boss to shove it up his ass and leave my boys alone." Oh, that felt glorious, like resurrecting a part of herself, like sewing on an appendage that she didn't know was missing until then. She had to stop herself from asking him out for a drink when he was done intimidating her.

"Big talk from such a respectable lady," he sneered.

She narrowed her eyes. He was low level if Mick didn't tell him who he was pushing on. Mick sent him to toy with her, even if he didn't know it. This wasn't really about Spot at all. It was about her. "I may not look like much, but I'm at least more than some powerless flunky of a gang boss sent to bully boys into the same trap you fell into! You go back to Red Hook and tell Mick that I said to go fuck himself and leave my boys, all of them, alone." Her voice was low and dangerous, a mere growl.

His hand shot out and grabbed her right arm, expecting to incapacitate her by grabbing her dominant hand, but she surprised him with a hard left jab straight to the mouth, the move that earned her her name. His hat flew off as his head snapped back but he barely paused before throwing her against the wall with his meaty forearm across her throat. "You tell your little pipsqueak, Spot that we got our eye on him. Time's up' he has to choose." His face was so close to hers. His dark hair fell over his forehead in tousled bangs and his deep, bottle green eyes blazed.

"Scat?" she squeaked through her constricted windpipe. He grimaced and she knew for sure it was him because even though he wasn't grinning, his jack-o-lantern teeth gave him away. His eyes widened as he drank her in and realized exactly who he was roughing up. "They didn't tell you who I was, did they." It wasn't a question. She swallowed loudly and tried to hook her thumbs under his arm. "Mick can't have Spot. I won, I won for both of you. He has no claim on Spot! Leave him alone." His hold loosened and she took a grateful breath in but he didn't fully release her. He held her, pinned against the bricks and leaned his head in, inches from her face. She breathed in his familiar scent and he buried his nose in her hair. After all this time, the addiction to him was still so strong. "Still just low level muscle after all this time, Scatter?" she hummed seductively. "How can you ask him to do this when this is as far as you've gotten?"

"You know I can't call them off," he growled, his voice more a vibration than anything. "They want him and its my job to collect him." His lips brushed against her ear as he spoke and her knees grew weak. How did he still have this affect on her after all this time? The sound of running feet approaching caught their attention and pulled him away. "Meet me," he whispered raggedly in her ear before letting her go, "Meet me tonight at our place." Then, he was gone, running down the alley as she sunk down where she stood, one hand over her mouth to try to contain the sobs that were forcing their way out and the other wrapped tightly around her middle as if she had been stabbed. In truth, she wasn't sure she hadn't been.

"Marta." Spot snapped as he skidded around the corner and dropped in front of her. He asked question after question, but he might as well have been speaking another language. She tried to focus, tried to listen to what he was asking but her mind was reeling and her hands and knees were shaking violently. "Tell me what happened, Kisser," Spot demanded.

A soft crack broke through the panic in her mind, the burn of a fresh slap stinging her cheek. Coming back to reality, she noticed the big hand, placed gently over hers, ink and soot pressed deep into the grooves of the skin. Her eyes travelled up to the face of the boy who was glaring at Spot for slapping her. Spot, in turn, was grousing back at him. "What?! It worked, didn't it?" The other boy rolled his intensely blue eyes and shook his shaggy black hair out of his eyes. Trout Cooper was Spot's closest friend. The second longest standing newsboy in the lodging house, having joined them two years after Spot, when the two boys were seven. At seventeen, he stood a full head taller than Spot and had a reputation as the boy people wanted to deal with when things were on good terms and the one they wanted to be far far away from once things turned ugly and came to a fight. Where Spot was thin, wiry and sharp, Trout was thick, burly and muscular. Where Spot was all corners and edges, Trout was blunt but forgiving. Where Spot would slap her to get her attention, Trout would gently touch her hand. She raised her eyes, looking between the two sets of eyes that couldn't be more different. Spot was glaring at her, annoyed by her dazed state. "He hurt you? Didja see him?"

Her mouth felt too dry to speak as her eyes drifted around the alley, afraid to tell them the truth of the ghost she was just attacked by and what she knew it meant, "Scatter."

"Why?" His voice was harsh and quiet and he was gripping her wrist. It hurt, but at the same time, that grip kept her from slipping back into the whirlwind of her mind.

"Time's up," she whispered. "Mick wants you."

His eyes flashed dangerously and he huffed a rough "C'mon," before he roughly hauled her to her feet and barked at Trout to grab her things. He shrugged out of his jacket and threw it over her shoulders before pulling her close to him with a protective arm and leading her quickly back through the streets. Without a word from Spot, Trout was at her other side, his big, gentle hand perched on her elbow as they walked back to the safety of the lodging house.

Tucked away in her room, away from the curious eyes of the boys, she sat in her rocking chair and covered her face while he paced back and forth across the floor. He sent Trout back to the bunk room as soon as they arrived, leaving them alone. He paced back and forth across the small sitting room, slamming the brass finial of his cane against the plaster walls each time he came to one. The cadence of his feet and the loud rap of the cane agains the wall boards was about to drive her mad. "Sit down, Spot," she snapped, "before I break your damn stick over your head!"

He growled and grumbled under his breath, "It ain't a stick, its a cane," but he threw it into the corner of the room and stomped back and forth without it a few more times before stopping in front of her. "Tell me everything, from the beginning," he said sternly and listened intently as she relayed the quick encounter. He finally sat on the floor after a moment, his fingers steepled and his mouth pursed. His eyes never left her as she rocked and spoke in a small, quiet voice that sounded so abnormal coming from her lips. When she told him about Scatter demanding that he meet her later that night, the boy's eyes narrowed and his nostrils flared . "What did he mean 'your place'?" he asked quietly, reserved for him, considering the rage that was brewing behind his eyes.

She flinched in shame as she remembered how he made her feel and how easily she fell back into that old behavior. "The apple tree at Most Holy Trinity," she answered, looking away from him in shame.

He watched her silently, puzzling out how a place that was her prison as a child could possibly have any sentimental meaning to her. "Of all the god damned places in New York, why there?" he demanded, picking at his fingernails.

Her hazel eyes went distant, and a soft smile twitched at the corner of her mouth. "It was where we left things for one another, messages and trinkets, when I couldn't get out, and where he would meet me when I could. Once I stopped going back, it was where we would meet when we needed time away from here, away from the prying eyes and blabbing mouths and it could be just us." Marta's eyes fell to his face, he looked like a betrayed little boy and her distant smile fell. "I guess I thought you knew." She certainly had her secrets, but that wasn't one of them. Not anymore.

He shook his head slowly, "You never let me follow you," he answered in a pout.

She laughed, "I never let you follow me!" she repeated sarcastically. He could always surprise her. "Don't think I don't know you did it anyway. You never were quite as good at following the rules as you were making them."

He gave her a half hearted smirk, before a scowl took over his pointed face. He dipped his head, his ash blond hair falling over his brow. "You're not going. Not with him."

A nub in the fabric dark, coffee brown skirt caught her attention and she picked at it, shaking her head. "You can't stop me, Spot," she answered, her voice just a thready whisper.

His eyes blazed as all the color left them, "The hell I can't!"

"I'm an adult, not one of your boys. You don't get to give me orders."

"I do if you're being damn stupid!" he snapped angrily, his voice rising as he rose to his knees to push into her personal space.

Her voice was a low, even growl when she spoke next, "You're not my mother."

"But you're mine!" he roared as he leapt to his feet and hulked over her, breathing heavily with his colorless eyes trained on her. "And I ain't letting you go out alone in the middle of the night to meet a thug who already broke you once! I won't!" His words fell between the two, taking their time to settle like a feather in a still room. His eyes widened and some of the blue returned as the weight of his own words hit him. "I mean. . .I. . ." he stuttered, trying to save face and sort himself out at the same time. But there was no taking those words back. "You're the closest I got. . .and you was always there. . .You's my family and I ain't letting you."

She stood and placed her hands on his flushed face, tipping it up to look at her pale one. She didn't let him pull away for once, waiting to speak until he settled as much as he would. "I have to do this. You and him were the only people who ever gave two shits about me, and he's gone. He didn't even know me out there. That's why you can't go, why I fought so hard. That's what Dockside, what Mick does to people. I won't let him take away who you are." "You're going to let me do this, if only to prove to you that the feeling that just came up in you, that shot you off the floor like a firecracker, is mutual. You WILL let me act on that same instinct, you got me? Because losing you to them will kill me. I won't let it happen again." She could have just spelled it out, told him that she loved him like a little brother and would do anything to protect him from the fate she already suffered. She could have said those three little words, but he would have recoiled from them the way he did from touch. He didn't trust those kind of words.

"Fine," he croaked. "But I'm your bird. You ain't going alone." She nodded obligingly and patted his elbow. He sunk back down to his place on the rag rug, drained from the burst of emotion and wrapped his arms over the top of his head, as if the sky might fall in on him at any moment. "I don't like any of it. That place gives me the creeps," he mumbled into the cave he created for himself.

She sat down in the chair with a flop, abandoning ladylike control. "I'm twenty seven years old. No one is after me anymore. Its just a building, not a haunted mansion." She took a deep breath, and sat back, rolling the chair back on its rockers and staring at the ceiling. "As for Scatter, he stopped trying to hurt me as soon as he knew who I was. I don't think he'll harm me."

He shot her a patronizing look as he stood, rolling his shoulders and stretching his arms over his head. "We're leaving at sundown. Until then, I've got shit to do, people to yell at." His smirk returned, though not at full strength. He put his persona back on like a jacket, and she couldn't help but be impressed by it. She let out a weak, breathy laugh as he popped his cane up into the air and caught it before he tucked it in his suspender loop. There truly were two sides to him. There was the perceptive, quiet kid who liked to watch people and figure them out and the cocky, smirking leader who always got his way. It was magnificent to watch the two split apart and then merge back together, but it worried her as well, because her pieces never fit together quite right after her encounter with Mick. She was functioning, surviving, but Spot was already broken. He couldn't afford to lose any more humanity. He didn't have childish wonder and happy memories to steal. In Mick's sadistic hands, he could become a monster.


	4. Chapter 4

**March 28, 1890**

Kisser stood with her papers stacked beside her and her back against the cold bricks of her favorite alleyway as she perused the day's headlines. Even though buds were forming on the trees it was still cold in the early mornings when the newsboys picked up their papers. She tugged her coat around herself and snugged her red tan down to cover more of her ears. She held the end of her braid up to her mouth with her fingers, swirling the tail with her tongue as she read turning it into a single, slick tendril. "You keep that up and someone will think you got something more than headlines on ya mind," Scat growled teasingly as he shoved his face into her neck and crumpled her paper between their bodies.

"Hey!" she nagged. "Easy on the merchandise!" But she didn't push him away. She dropped her braid and he flicked it over her shoulder, taking the destroyed paper from her hands and chucking it behind him. "I could have sold that."

"So dig yaself a penny outta my pocket. I dare ya," he challenged, smirking against the tender skin below her earlobe.

She grinned, letting her head trip back to give him more material to work with. "I bet I can find something more fun to play with in there than a penny." She teasingly dragged her index finger along the seam of his trouser pocket.

"Playing with fire," he warned in a low rumble.

"Whatsamatter, Scat?" she purred. "Can't take the heat?" She slammed her lips into his greedily, biting the soft flesh until he moaned seductively into her mouth. This was their routine, wake up, wait for Scat to finish bullshitting with the boys, get papers, make out for a bit and then help Scat get through the headlines before they parted ways to sell. Then she met with her birds, giving orders so that she could keep their big borough safe. Scat thought she was nuts, sending the smaller, quieter kids out to keep and eye on things, but Brooklyn was too big for the two of them to watch alone, whether he wanted to believe it or not. She had better things to do than watch her back all the time.

She wrapped his black suspenders around her hands, pulling him closer to herself, forcing his weight to press her harder against the wall. His tousled brown hair fell over his brow as he tucked his cap into his back pocket by it's brim and his hands shoved into her pockets, yanking her hips forward into his. His kiss made her hazel eyes heavy lidded as she pulled away to watch him suck and nibble at her collarbone as if it was his true calling in life. The sound of a scuffle in the square and the telltale chant of "fight, fight, fight," broke through the haze of lust that filled the alley, letting them know that their attention was needed elsewhere.

"Nooooo," Scat whined, not releasing a piece of her skin from his teeth as she moved to go investigate the growing noise. "Not yet! Let 'em fight it out, Kiss!"

She rolled her eyes and pushed him off, dragging him behind her by the hand. The boys were circled up around the fighters, but as Kisser and Scat moved in, the chanting crowd grew more still, waiting to see what the leaders would do. At the center of the circle, two little boys were duking it out just like the big boys taught them to. Thick, stocky, wild, Trout was straddling scrawny, scrappy Spot and wailing on him with his fists. Spot was holding his own but somehow let himself get pinned and Trout's weight on top of him was letting him do little more than block the blows. Scat pushed his way in and hauled the dark haired seven year old off by the seat of his pants and the scruff of his neck while Kisser followed and glared at the circle of newsboys who now silently stared at their boots. "What are you bummers staring at, huh?" The boys didn't move, all standing stock still like she might attack at any moment and their only defense was to pretend to be inanimate. "You've got papes to sell, get a move on!" She waited until they cleared out to lower her hand to him, knowing before she even moved that he would smack it out of his way and stand on his own two feet without her help.

That was his way, alway had been since the day he showed up two years before. He was so tiny that he barely came up to the bawdy newsgirl's waist and angrily wiped away tears, because he got caught in a scuffle and lost the dime he found. He wanted to buy papes so he could eat. She knew he was different right then, because she had nine and ten year old streetwise kids who would have found a dime on the street and run straight to see the flickers or to a sweet shop. To see a dime and decide to try to double it before he worried about filling his tiny stomach proved that he had brains in his little head. She handed the kid twenty of her seventy papers and a scrap of bread from her pocket and he'd quickly become a fixture at her side.

"You wanna tell me what that mess was about?" she asked flatly once he was up and his clothes were dusted off. Blood ran from his nose and he wiped it off on the sleeve of his jacket gruffly.

He shrugged his shoulders and refused to look up at her with his glass like eyes. "He gets mad at me, gets his feelings hurt over nothing," he mumbled.

"Yeah?" she sassed, smirking at his avoidance of the truth. "What kind of nothing?" He looked at his boots, shuffling them against the dirt and grime on the streets. "That's what I thought. What did you say?"

"Just that I didn't want to go sell by the stupid buskers!"

She groaned and buried her face in her palms. "Stupid buskers, Spot. He's your best friend, you oughta know better by now." He scowled at the ground. "Why didn't you just tell him to go off on his own? He doesn't have to be glued to your side all the time!"

"He don't like to be on his own. He needs someone looking out for him, in case someone messes with him."

"Seems to me that he does just fine when someone messes with him. Didn't look like you had much of a chance against him from where I was standing." When he scowled, she relented and knelt down to his level, resisting the urge to touch him. He didn't like yo be touched, no matter how gentle. "You can't keep him so tight under your thumb, you gotta let him breathe or he's gonna run away from you. He's got a disadvantage, sure, but he's got learn to make do just like you gotta learn to think before you open that big mouth of yours."

He scowled. "What about him?" he snapped. "I didn't call him stupid!"

She sighed and dusted him off a bit more. "Yeah, we gotta work on that too." She looked over across the square where Scatter was kneeling in front of Trout, who was pantomiming something with big gestures and his wild, dark hair falling in his red face. He showed up in their midst not six months before, at the beginning of winter and they still knew so little about him. He was wildly emotional, reacting instantly and violently to certain things but in between reactions he was so shy and withdrawn that it was almost like he wasn't there. He was just a little dark shadow following quiet but cunning Spot. Across the square, he stamped his foot and shoved Scat in the chest. Scat didn't even rock on his knees as he gave Trout a warning look.

"How's he doing, Spot?" she asked quietly, watching as the little boy continued to take his anger out on Scatter.

Spot looked over his shoulder and smirked. "He's fine, Kiss, I'm taking real good care of him. I make sure don't nothing happen to him." She rolled her eyes and stood up. Spot was smothering Trout in his attempts to take care of him.

She grinned, "Maybe you should let him take care of himself a bit more. You'd clobber anyone who treated you the way you do him and he about had your number just now."

"He's heavy," the little blonde boy grumbled.

She laughed, raising herself to her full five feet eight inches be stretching her long limbs up above her head. "You and me, Kid, they're always gonna be bigger than us, so we've gotta be quicker and smarter. You gotta find the weakness and use it." She turned him around me bent down behind him so that they were seeing from the same angle. "What's Trout's weakness?"

"He can't call for help?" She snorted with barely contained laughter.

"Yeah, but what good does that do you if he pins you again? What is a weakness that you can use. Look at him right now, trying to start shit with Scat. What's his weakness?" Trout wasstill shoving and shaking his head.

"He's pissed."

"Yep. He isn't thinking. He's just throwing himself around. You've got to know when to get out of the way, when to stick your foot out and trip him, and when to lean your shoulder into his knees and take him down. We have to watch when we're fighting, us scrapers, because we ain't got strength and size on our side. They're always going to be bigger, but a smart hit can be more powerful than a heavy hit if it's done right." He nodded and together they crossed the square as Trout began to calm down.

She ruffled his wild black hair and he shuffled back a bit, looking up at her through his eyelashes. "Got all that gunpowder worked out of your system now?" He nodded and shoved his hands in his pockets to jingle his coins. "You want to read with me tonight?" His eyes stayed down, but he nodded again. The teacher that the Children's Aid Society hired to teach the boys at night refused to give the little boy a chance because he either couldn't or wouldn't talk. He took the judgment hard, laying waste to most of the schoolroom and she took him under her wing, teaching him his letters and sums sitting at the kitchen table. She smiled at him, tapping his chin to make him look up at her, "You come find me when you're done selling, ok?" He pulled his chin away and nodded again, breaking her heart a little and making her sigh. In Trout's eyes, Scatter might as well have hung the moon, and she was only trustworthy because Scat liked her. She gently chucked Spot under the chin, but kept her eyes on Trout, "You punch him right in the kisser if he gets too mouthy, you hear?" Trout smiled shyly and nodded again, tugging at Spot's shirtsleeve and pointing out the gate.

"Hold ya horses, Trout, I ain't done!" Spot groused. Trout pointed at the two older kids and began making very loud exaggerated kissing noises. Kisser felt her mouth drop open while Scat guffawed loudly. She couldn't believe that the little boy that hardly acknowledged her presence unless he was asking her to help him with a word in a book was openly teasing her. He blushed and smiled, still looking up at her through his eyelashes. She scrunched her nose and winked at him, drawing an almost inaudible giggle out of him. "That's gross, Trout," Spot admonished before looking back up to her. "Where ya selling today, Kiss?"

"Feels like the wind might blow me to Bushwick today," she answered, staring up at the sky as if the wind truly would tell her where to go. "Where are you two off to?"

Spot and Trout stared at each other for a moment, both scowling until Trout pointed at himself and then at Scat. Scat frowned, "Sorry kid, you can't come with me today. I got leader shit to take care of." That caught Kisser's attention. She didn't know about any leader business. She cocked and eyebrow at him and placed her hands on her hips. Trout wasn't having it either, grabbing Scat's hand and stamping his booted foot. "No!" Scat snapped in a moment of uncharacteristic frustration that made the little boy pull away like he was burned. "Stay with Kiss," Scat's voice was quiet and somber. "You can't come where I'm going."

"What are you on about?" she asked.

He pleaded with her, his eyes that same earthy and rich rich green, looking sad and ashamed. "Keep out of it, Kiss," he warned. "It's my business."

"Since when is there leader shit that we don't take care of together? Since when do we keep secrets?" she demanded, stepping into his personal space and glaring up at him, her hazel eyes warming with golden intensity as she got more and more angry.

"Drop it, Kiss," he answered gruffly, stepping back. "It's my key. It's my problem. I'll explain it when I can." He turned and walked away, leaving her flanked by the two boys. Trout quickly grabbed his papers and ran off, not used to being rejected by Scat. She watched Scatter walk away with her long arms wrapped tightly around her body, before looking down at Spot and jerking her head in the same direction that Scatter went. He didn't need any further instruction, he took his papers and followed.

She fumed as she sold her papers, running into people with force as she stomped down the streets, hollering at the top of her lungs. He held the key over her. He was hiding something. That bastard. They both knew she was the stronger leader, but a girl had never run a borough, and Scat worried for her safety, all of their safety if someone thought they were weak. She tugged her cranberry red beret down over her forehead and scowled. She couldn't shake off the bad feeling the whole thing gave her. She didn't like not knowing things. Seventy papers and several hours later she heard the whistle from Spot and veered into the nearest alley.

Seemingly materializing out of nothing, the slight seven year old stood before her, those eyes gleaming out of the gloom. "What'cha got for me, Kid?" she asked, swatting the brim of his oversized cap so that it fell over his eyes. While he scowled up at her and righted his cap, she looked around.

"Bones is getting ready to leave for a factory job, he's gonna tell Scat later this week," he answered. His voice had taken on some bite and hardness in the two years since she took him under her wing, his face too. No longer did she look up at her wide eyed, he scowled and glared now. "Rustler and Duke had it out over some girl named Maureen at the Dove Parlor. Duke won and Rustler lost a tooth." He grinned, showing the boy he really was as she rolled her eyes at the stupidity of the older boys fighting over a girl paid to give them the time of day. Spot stalled then, his face pinching as he scuffed his boot back and forth against the cobblestones.

"Out with it, Spot," she demanded. "I ain't got all day here. You know what I'm waiting for."

"He went to Red Hook, to some tavern with a Fox on the sign. He was talking to a man, but the guy didn't listen to Scat. He called his goons on him They roughed him up and said they were coming for him and he had a week to decide."

All the blood drained from her face. Spot, didn't joke, he didn't really seem to understand the concept, so she knew he wasn't messing with her for kicks. She wouldn't put it past the seven year old to lie, but he'd never fleeced her before. "Tell me everything," she whispered. "I want to know what he said, what they were wearing, what they looked like and how they talked. I want to know how they fought and what they had for lunch. Tell me every damn thing you remember, Spot." He grinned eerily, loving when she challenged him like this with recalling every detail. He rattled off what he saw and she tried to keep breathing. A tavern with no name over the door, just a fox with X's for eyes. A man with dark hair and skin like he was in the sun a lot, a threat, a challenge, no negotiations. This was all too familiar. It was happening again. She cut him off, holding the back of his neck like a pup in trouble. "You never go there again, you got me? Never."

He fought her hand off and glared at her. "I just did what you told me!

She took a deep shaky breath. "I know, but never again. You stay away from Red Hook, away from that place. You stay out of their territory. If I catch you there, you're going to wish they caught you first. Bad things happen to newsboys who mess around in Red Hook."


	5. Chapter 5

"Daily Eagle, Evening Post, The World, The Sun, The Journal, The Tribune. Daily Eagle, Evening Post..." Over and over she repeated it to keep her mind from thinking about what it really wanted to think about. They were coming for him. She went to such desperate measures all those years ago and it was for nothing. They were still going to take him. Mick was going to end up with both of the most important people in her life. A knock at her sitting room door pulled her out of her loop. She wiped her face and fanned her eyes, knowing they were red and puffy, but hoping that the boys were feeling oblivious to her feelings like they were most days. Standing in the hall was a little boy no older than seven with his bootlaces untied who the boys had dubbed Pickle for his affinity for getting himself into trouble that he couldn't get himself back out of. "Marta, can you show me again? Spot says I can't learn to use a slingshot till I can tie them myself."

"That's the rule," she answered, trying to curl her mouth into a smile for the little boy. "Show me what you remember, Pickle, and I'll help you from there." He plopped down on the floor, his nearly black hair hanging shaggily out from under his cap and the tip of his tongue poking out of his mouth as he talked his way through tying a bow in his bootlace. She caught his mistake and showed him, letting him do the other boot unassisted. "There you go! A few more days of practice and you'll be terrorizing the neighborhood." She felt herself relax a bit. The boys were her comfort, she needed them as much as they needed her.

He looked up at her, his pride turning to curiosity. "Is what the big boys are saying true, Miss Marta?"

"Dunno," she answered, "depends on what they're saying."

"That you used to be one of us. That you was a leader like Spot. Some of them are saying its a bluff 'cause they don't think a girl was ever a leader and some are saying that you's too pretty and too…girly to be a newsie."

She smirked, "What do you think, Pickle? You think I'm Brooklyn Newsie material?" She laid on her street drawl thick and squinted at him cooly, like she would have back when she was herself.

"I dunno, Marta, you's pretty tough for a girl…" he answered with a grin, his green eyes twinkling wildly. She ginned at him and straightened his cap for him. She loved the little ones, their smiles and honesty kept her going.

"You ask Spot, because we both know those big goons are too chicken. He'll tell you the truth," she answered with a wink.

Trout came down the stairs a moment later and Pickle looked up at her, "Maybe I'll ask Trout instead."

"You're not too chicken to ask Spot, are you?" she teased the little boy. She waited for his shoulders to square and for a scowl to come to his face, but instead he just nodded, too honest for bravado. She laughed and ruffled his hair before putting her fingers to her lips and letting out a shrill whistle to get Trout's attention. "Thats ok, Pickle. Trout knows the answer just as well as Spot does." Trout approached, his face full of worry, and questioned her silently. "Pickle wants to know if the rumors upstairs about me are true." She tried to contain her grin but waggled her eyebrows at him. He stared at her incredulously for a minute before a smile spread across his broad handsome face and he snorted and nodded at Pickle.

"Really?" Pickle asked. Trout nodded again before shooing the little boy away to go spread more gossip amongst the other lads.

Trout looked at her smugly, pulling a small notepad out of his pocket, scribbling quickly, in neat blocky print and then holding it out for her to see. **_You and your lost little boys_** , he wrote ** _._**

"Hey, you turned out ok, so don't knock it," she answered, waving for him to follow her to the kitchen. She needed to get something on for supper. Trout sat down at the small table tucked into the corner of the kitchen without being asked while she gathered her supplies and stretched his long legs out under the table. Unlike Spot who was just now getting to be as tall as her, Trout surpassed her sometime around fourteen and just kept going. She watched him, his jaw still round with youth, his cerulean blue eyes, almost too bright to seem naturally possible, as he fiddled with his pencil that he was never without for fear of not having a voice. "How's Spot doing with everything that happened earlier?"

The dark haired boy sighed and rubbed the back of his neck while he thought of how he wanted to answer that. **_He's pissed, but he's holding himself together. He hasn't said what he wants to do about the warning, I think he's more concerned with you and Scat right now._**

She sat down next to him and read the note while she began to peel potatoes. "There's nothing he can do about the warning. He can't fight Mick. Mick will bend him over backwards and break him. Scat won't hurt me because its not me Mick is after. He didn't even know it was me he was roughing up till he really took a look at my face." The dumbstruck look on Trout's face nearly brought tears to her eyes. "He forgot me. He didn't recognize me till after I punched him." Her lip trembled as her composure threatened to break again. "Am I that different, Trout?" Trout looked at her skeptically, he didn't have much experience with girls, but he knew this was a question with no right answer. He swirled his fingers around his head before cocking an eyebrow at her. She smiled and absently touched her elaborate hair. "I guess it is a lot different from a braid down my back. I was never so fancy back then." She went back to her potatoes and he pulled his harmonica out and kept her company with his music. He used to play her a song before they sat down at night while the other younger boys were in school, when they had their own lessons at that same table. When he finished his song she looked up at him, worry creasing her face. "How are you doing with all of this? You were closer to Scat than anyone else but me." He set the harmonica down and shifted uncomfortably in his seat and picked at a scratch in the tabletop. He shrugged his shoulders, before looking up at her through his enviably thick, black eyelashes. His feelings were clear, he could write her a novel and not adequately tell her with written words. Even if he spoke, it wouldn't do the confusion in his head and heart justice. She nodded and put a hand over his, "Yeah, me too." They sat in silence for a bit longer before she sniffled. "I miss him still," she whimpered. "I wish it wasn't him. I wish Mick sent any of his other greasy, no count goons. He sent Scatter just to send me a message. To remind me that he won and to rub my nose in it. Crazy as it is, after all this time, if he came running back, I'd probably forgive him and jump into his arms."

Trout sniggered. **_No you wouldn't. You'd knock another one of his teeth out first._**

She laughed and wiped her eyes. "I dunno, he's still handsome, but I'm not sure he could make it on his looks with any fewer teeth. Plus, kissing that...yuck." He made a face showing her his disgust at the thought of her making out with anyone and she smiled, but it was short lived. "Keep an eye on him, ok? Don't let him come up with any harebrained schemes to try to get out of this. It will only make it worse." His thick brow furrowed as he watched her, but he nodded anyway and made an x over his heart to seal his promise. She smiled sadly and leaned forward to cup his cheek in her hand and he leaned into it just a bit. She was glad he finally let her in. He still looked wild and his size and silence intimidated a lot of the boys, but he had a gentle heart, and sometimes was just what she needed.

At sundown she met Spot inside the front doors. She didn't miss the quirked eyebrow at the sight of her only nice dress, the one that she normally saved for bigger and better things than meeting the man that broke her heart outside of a convent in the middle of the night. She raised her tawny brow right back at him, daring him to say something about it. She smiled at all of the boys and nodded a greeting as she buttoned the little jet buttons on her navy blue wool coat, and they lowered their eyes with respect. She couldn't help but wonder what Pickle told them. They were such gossips, better than the tabloid writers. Spot waited for her, draping his lean body against the doorframe with his arms crossed on his chest. If she didn't know him so well, she might have thought that he was bored or at the very least relaxed, lounging there with his hat pulled low over his eyes and his slingshot in his back pocket. He oozed nonchalance, while she radiated anxiety. "No stick?" she asked in a weak voice, trying to relieve some of the tension that surrounded the two of them.

"Cane," he corrected witheringly, "and no, gets in the way." He shoved his hands deep into his pockets. He looked up and their eyes met, the exhaustion and worry there made her gasp. Between the boys hounding him for information all afternoon and the reappearance of Scatter, he hadn't had a moment to himself since he got back from selling that morning. His eyes were shadowed and dark, with bags underneath so deep purple they looked like bruises. He was a solitary creature and being with people all day drained him. When he spoke his voice was low and raspy from smoking all afternoon as his ability to deal with his boys got less and less. "We split up as soon as we get out the door," he instructed. "I'll take the longer way around and give you a signal when I get there. I ain't coming out unless you call for me. You won't see me, unless you need me, until we get back here." She nodded and smoothed back her long mane of wild curls. She left it down that night, letting her freshly washed curls free of their normal coil atop her head. His hand reached out like he was going to grab her hand for a split second before he drew back. "Be careful," he ordered quietly and slipped out the door.

She made the hour long walk around the Navy Yard and toward Williamsburg, moving with purpose so as not to attract the wrong kind of attention. It was a cool, fall night and a huge orange harvest moon hung low in the sky, too heavy to rise all the way. Inside, all her resolve had melted and she wanted to run back home to the Lodging House and cry herself to sleep under her covers. Even facing the Mother Abbess and taking vows sounded better than meeting Scat again. Most Holy Trinity rose imposingly in front of her, with it's gothic double steeples and pointed wrought iron fencing all around. She nearly froze on the spot, having to shove down the overwhelming fear of the place in order to keep her suddenly leaden feet moving forward. The apple tree was just a twisted and gnarled stump, the branches had long since been cut off, its umbrella of protection from the eyes of the sisters gone. It wasn't until the low call of a mourning dove, too loud to have come from a naturally occurring bird came drifting over the still air that she felt like she could breathe. Spot was there, she wasn't alone.

She straightened her skirt, fluffed her hair and leaned casually against the spear-like fence, not gaining much comfort from the sun warmed iron. Her body remembered how to be that girl but her mind reeled and raced in a way that made it hard to know how long after Spot's call that she waited there under the tree alone. It felt like only moments before a voice cut through the silence. "It ain't smart for beautiful women to go running around the city in the night," that smooth baritone growled out from the surrounding shadows. Her heart leapt, hoping that he wasn't coming through the same alleyway that Spot had himself hidden in, but once he was out, bathed in the golden light of the harvest moon, the warm nervous tingle that was so familiar emerged and she felt like she was fifteen again.

"No one's ever accused me of being smart, Scatter, especially not where you're concerned." She even sounded like her old self when she was around him. Cocky, seductive, assertive, she missed those parts of herself. He stood in the street, keeping a safe distance away from her with his hands stuffed deep inside his trouser pockets. Her heart, her mind, and some other choice parts of her anatomy were all arguing over what to do. Jump into hi arms and shove her face into his coat and drink in the sweet male smell of him? Show him the business end of her fist a few more times? Or check his pockets like she used to in their alleyway. She wanted there to be music coming from somewhere that he could fling her around to, she wanted anything to show her that her guy was inside the hostile man in front of her. "I'd love to tell you that you look well, but honestly, you like shit. Is Mick treating you that bad?" She tried to keep her voice neutral, but her bitterness seeped out, despite the schoolgirl's wants, the betrayed woman was stronger.

He stayed back and she didn't even stand up straight from her position leaning against the bars, neither one wanting to be the one who took the risk, tempted fate and bridged the gap between them. She remembered the way her body had lit up when he touched her earlier, and knew that if he touched her again she wouldn't be able to stop herself from touching him back, from kissing him, holding him or worse. He pulled his hands from his pockets and crossed them over his chest, making his shoulders look all the broader. He grumbled under his breath, so low that she couldn't understand him and rubbed his chin, wincing slightly. "You've still got that mean left jab." She could see the bruise forming on his mouth and chin even in the low light. "I had to lie and say you got a kick in on me to save face."

She hoped desperately he couldn't see the smile the was curling at her lips. "A sock in the kisser from me is like a badge, you used to wear them with honor."

He chuckled, trying to keep it under his breath. "Hope you weren't waiting in the dark for me too long."

She knew he meant that night. She knew it was supposed to be harmless and innocuous small talk to try to ease them into whatever it was that he wanted to see her for, but that statement broke the fragile dam holding back all of those festering feelings. "I've been waiting in the dark for you for ten years, Ted," she said in that low, even murmur that any boy she'd ever cared for knew meant they needed to find shelter from the storm she was about to unleash. "I found out what you did from a lookout because you didn't even have the balls to tell me yourself. I waited, hoping you'd come to your senses, hoping you'd write me a letter or come and see me to explain why. You were just gone!"

Instead of remorse or shame, he looked amused that she was bitter. His green eyes gave a cruel twinkle. "Atta girl. Come on, let's hear it," he taunted, egging her on like a bully. Her eyes blazed. "You knew where I was! You could have come to me whenever you wanted. You chose yourself over me!"

"You knew I couldn't go with you! You knew what he would do to me, what he will still do to me if he takes Spot. I won't let him have Spot, he will have to kill me first. You might be able to ignore who that man is and what he did to me, but I wont. You chose him over me and left me nothing to my name but that house and those boys. The only place and the only people I ever made sense with, remember?" She sneered as he winced at his own words being thrown in his face. "Nothing else in my world made sense so I clung to what did. I managed to grow up and make something of myself without abandoning everything I loved! I made the best of the mess you left me with." Standing there under the twin bell towers a terrible thought came to her, "If I knew I'd end up hurt, sad and alone either way, I would have taken my vows without a second thought."

"I wish you had too, because then you never woulda whored yourself out or made me look the fool. They shoulda worked harder at breaking your spirit in there, because then Mick wouldn't have even paid you a second glance." His words stung, even though to her mind they couldn't be more false. "You's the reason they wanted me. You's the reason they's kept their eye on Spot. It only took me a few weeks to figure out that I wasn't the hot shit I thought I was, that I was all swagger and no substance. A couple of fights later I earned some respect back, but they kept their eye on you and watched you groom that kid up from a pup. You did good, Kiss, there's no denying that. He's the leader that you and I were when we were on the same team."

All her fault. She played both of them right into the hands of the worst sort while she was trying to keep them safe. "Whored myself? Scat, no man has touched this body beyond a copped feel or a grabbed ass besides you. You are the only man who has...had me like that. And who played who for a fool? You were a good leader until you abandoned us! You had this light, this charisma and charm that I never had! They never would have trusted me to lead if you didn't trust me first."

"It's water under the bridge now, Kiss. There's nothing you can do for Spot. The boss has eyes on all of you. He knows every one of the boys by name and usefulness. He will take Spot. He will challenge him and Spot will have to make his choice, same as Chips, and me and Trots."

"And me," she whispered.

"No, you ran to him, Kiss. You ran straight to him instead of letting me take care of you, and look what it got you. You didn't save no one because you can't win against him. He'll have me until the day I ain't earning my keep anymore and he'll have Spot, one way or another. Mick doesn't lose. He ain't gonna let this go, not for Spot or you. That's why I brought you here. He got a taste for you all those years ago and he ain't gonna give up so easy this time." He turned around and left her shivering in the autumn night. Once he was gone, Spot came out and wrapped his arms around her shoulders and she leaned into his and cried.

"You be careful," she whispered. "Don't give them a reason to hurt you when they he take you. You need every ounce of what makes you Spot Conlon to face Mick. Make me proud and I'll do what I can."

"I'll make you proud. I'll make Brooklyn proud," he gritted through clenched teeth. "Dockside won't know what hit 'em and Mick won't have a chance to lay a finger on you."

She looked up at him, pitying but also jealous of his boyish self assurance. "It's not Mick's fingers you have to worry about."


	6. Chapter 6

She set her fifteen cents down on the desk and scooped up her thirty papers before anyone could make a stink, but the whispers crept up her back like spiders. It was the second day in a row that she only bought enough papers to pay for tomorrow's papers and for her bed. She needed to get away from the distribution yard before Scat caught up to her, but sounds of a scuffle in her alley stopped her. She couldn't stand around casually in his presence and smile while he charmingly lied to her face about his bruises. About how he broke up a fight between two of the older boys and got dragged into it. The thought of his betrayal made her feel sick to her stomach and she knew she needed to move, but she couldn't just let the two youngest boys in her charge kill each other in an alley. With a roll of her golden hazel eyes she hauled Trout and Spot away from each others grasp and gave both of them a little shake. "Get going," she ordered Spot, "I'll deal with you later." He sulked, but did as he was told while Trout struggled and grunted. "Settle down, you," she demanded. "You can't keep doing this! You can't keep smashing things up! Especially us! We need to stick together, now more than ever!" He glared at her and stuffed his hands in his pockets. "Well? What do you have to say for yourself." The single finger gesture she got in answer did nothing to help her foul mood and she reached out and cuffed him behind the ear as Scat's heavy footsteps approached behind her. She didn't have time to lecture him. "You watch yourself, Little Man. Go get your papers and stay out of trouble."

"Kiss!" Scat called at her back as she took off running down the street away from Brooklyn Heights with her braid banging against her back. For two days she searched for, interrogated and berated anyone who she could think of, anyone she'd ever talked to who might be able to tell her more about Dockside. Who their leader was, where besides the tavern in Red Hook with the dead fox on it they met and what their weaknesses were, but they were all too scared to talk and told her not to get caught asking those questions. She went all the way to the Bronx late the night before, to the second in command of the gang there. John Knight didn't owe her anything but he was strong and fearless and most importantly fair. He looked at her with sympathy in his blue eyes, but even he turned her away. His only help was to give her an address in Stuyvesant and a name. Fox Mulligan, a skip-trace who had his own beef with Dockside and might be willing to help her.

Now, as she stared up at the innocuous apartment building on Washington Avenue, she couldn't help but wonder if Knight set her up. This wasn't the kind of place that anyone would ever look to meet the one man willing to double cross a gang boss who's name others were to scared to say. In the shadows of a nearby alley, she waited and watched for awhile, but saw nothing but the everyday comings and goings of the simple folk who lived inside. These were just normal people who worked and shopped, whose children played marbles and hopscotch in the street. Just as she pushed her mistrust down, a shuffle in the alley behind her distracted her. A ducking head of black curls made her roll her eyes, "I told you to get your papers and get back to selling." Trout skulked out of the shadows with his head down. "After what you said to me, why are you following me? You don't even like me. Get outta here, go follow Scat around." He shrank away from her, but didn't run and didn't look up. His sleeve was grimey and wet and she saw why as he dragged it across his puffy red eyes. "Hey now," she soothed, kneeling down. She really was a mush, just like Scat accused her of. Her two little lost boys could get her to do just about anything with a sad look, they had it rougher than even she did and she would do anything to make their little lives better any way she could. "That ain't like you. What's with the water works?" She waited, but he didn't move, just glowered, fighting the tears and sniffling. "You can tell me, Trout." Her turned his hurt and angry blue eyes up to her and sucked the inside of his bottom lip in between his teeth, carefully thinking of how he could tell her.

'Scat...' he signed, but then shook his head. Then, 'Spot...' but he couldn't put it together. She pulled the notepad she had the address written in down to him along with the stub of a carpenter's pencil.

"Just like we do for school. Tell me," she coaxed.

 ** _Spot sed Scat will go way_** , he wrote in large wobbly letters. **_Spot sed he wont com bak. I dont want him to not com bak. Make him stay Kiss._**

"Thats what you two were fighting about?" He nodded and she pressed her lips together in annoyance. "I wish he hadn't said that to you." He raised his eyebrows at her, his sweet soft face hopeful that his friend was just in a bad mood and was saying things just to make him mad. "I don't know what's going on, right now, Kiddo. That's why I'm here. I won't lie to you, though, its possible." She looked up at the building. "I need you to head back to The Heights and stay out of trouble." He wiped his face on his wet sleeve again and patted his chest before making his sign for help, but she shook her head. "I don't know what's in there, and even if it's nothing I don't want you and Spot messed up in this bullshit. This is leader business, not kid stuff. Hell," she said with a half hearted laugh, "I don't want to be messed up in this, but Scatter is being an idiot about it and just accepting it and I can't do that. Not after Chips." He questioned her with a confused look and she ruffled his hair. "Don't worry about Chips, he can't help us. The dead aren't very good informants." He pointed at the building and started moving but she caught him by his collar. "I said no! You're not going in there!"

He stamped his foot and snatched the little pad of paper back from her. **_Scat sez dont go new places alone._** Before she could even get a grumble out, he had stuffed her notepad in his pocket, grabbed her hand and was towing her across the the street.

"So you're just taking my stuff and taking charge now?" she asked, unable to hide her amusement or her pride. At his stoic nod, she chuckled and grumbled, "Little shit," affectionately under her breath. He looked up hurt, but saw her face and the corner of his mouth quirked up in something very near a smile. When they got to the front stoop she stopped him and knelt down in front of him. "I have to go in the apartment alone, when we get up there you can stay in the hallway and keep watch. If any trouble comes, you run like hell and get one of the big guys." He made his sign for Scatter, but she put her hands over his and shook her head slowly, glaring at him until he looked a little paler and swallowed loudly like his tongue was too big for his mouth. "Anyone but Scatter. Scatter can't know about this." She ducked her head, ashamed that she had to hide things from him. If there was one truth those two little boys knew, it was that Kisser and Scat had no secrets from one another, but Scat changed all that when he decided to try to hide the fact that Dockside was after him. Trout's nose was scrunched, he didn't like it anymore than she did. "Please, Trout, get Duke get Lefty, Trots, anyone but Scatter and only if things get really bad." He agreed with a nod and they entered the building together. Halfway up the first set of stairs, she about jumped out of her skin when his small, warm hand tucked itself inside hers. He didn't look up, just kept walking and she smiled and squeezed his hand. She might not be his favorite person, but she was starting to feel like maybe he cared about her a little more than he wanted to let on.

Outside apartment 206 she gave his hand one last squeeze before shooing him away to hide down the hall. With one final check that her companion was completely out of sight she raised her hand and rapped her knuckles on the door. At her knock, the apartment door opened and she stared, puzzled beyond belief at the man in front of her. He was tall and broad, the kind of man who'd obviously spent his life either working and honest wage or fighting his way through the underworld of New York. She couldn't see his hands, the telltale sign of the difference. A working man would have calluses on his palms, but a fighting man's show of his labor would be on his knuckles. He was old enough for both his hair and the full beard below it to be fully salt and pepper gray, but it was was between the two crops of grey that was so striking. Where his eyes should have been was a cloth tied around his head. "'Tween you and Grazia, Carmen, I'm gonna need someone to let my trousers out." He had a kind smile on his face, that slowly slid away the longer she stood silent. He tilted one ear to her and one eyebrow raised up from behind the bandage, nicked with scars at either end. Whatever he was hiding was not pretty. "Not Carmen," he mused before setting his jaw to grind out, "so, who are you and what do you want?"

She peered down the hall to make sure Trout was still tucked safely away before stammering, "I'm...I...They call me Kisser."

He humphed, "I didn't ask what they call you, I asked who you are." The question made her take a step back, but her hesitation was only momentary.

She threw her shoulders back and crossed her arms over her chest, posturing like on of the boys did when they were trash talking each other before a fight. She didn't care that the man before her couldn't see her, it made her feel bigger, braver, more able to tackle the situation on her own. She wasn't used to going into these situations without back up. "My name is Marta Gatcyk, leader of the Brooklyn newsboys, and I need to find Fox Mulligan." She got the distinct feeling that lying to this man was nearly impossible; she would have no secrets in his presence as if her lies and deceptions made her smell or sound different. Something about that was freeing. It was the first time since she left the convent that she didn't feel like she needed the protection of her nickname, that she could give her real name without fear.

He nodded, considering her words carefully. No laughter, no stupid commentary about a girl leading the newsboys. "What do you want with Mulligan?"

"What's it to you?" she snapped, and then winced internally. Someday, she knew, her big mouth was going to get her into more trouble than she could handle, but she'd been all over the city in the past two days and if this guy was just some blind old coot that Knight sent her to see to "protect'' her from Dockside, she was going to be royally annoyed.

"You got questions for Mulligan, you gotta get by me first. Now, what do you want?" The change in the question didn't fly over her head.

"Dockside, burned to the ground. Thats what I want."

He stepped into her threateningly, his hot breath rolling into her face, "That ain't something you should go around saying so casually, girlie. Get inside." He stepped his massive body slightly to the side, forcing her to brush past him to get in. His battered grey eyebrow rose again once she was inside, "Yer not the slip of a thing I was expecting."

"I get that a lot," she answered with a smirk.

He pointed her towards a tiny kitchen table big enough for two chairs, but she refused to sit, instead taking the moment to look around the tiny studio and make sure there was nothing here that would put her in danger. He stood by the door, his ear turned to her, listening as she took inventory of his small sparse world. A single bed sat in the corner with an often but expertly mended quilt covering it. He had friends who helped him with the things he needed. The stitches were pretty ones like she'd seen on rich ladies' handkerchiefs, not the utilitarian whipstitches that someone who just wanted to fix a rip and move on would make. Everything was clean, but there was no personality, nothing to give someone coming in any sense of the man who lived here. Slowly, cautiously, never taking her eyes off the man, she moved towards the chair and sat down. She had a good sense of people, and this man didn't raise any sort of alarm in her head. He wasn't a threat to her. He smiled at her acceptance of a seat and sat down across from her and rested his elbows on the small, scoured table, lacing his fingers together and resting his chin on the knot they formed. "Why are you so determined to ruin yourself Miss Gat...Gat..."

"Gat-chick, Gatcyk."

"Miss Marta," he smiled and she couldn't help but smile back. It was nice to just be smiled at. The boys were so cocky and arrogant, her life was a whirlwind of smirks and jeers, but a genuine, kind smile was a rarity, and surprisingly, hearing her own name was nice as well. "Donovan Mickelson doesn't treat his girls any kinder than he does his boys, in fact I can tell you that I'd rather be one of his goons any day. Those girls...death would be kinder than what they see daily."

"I told you, Mr Mulligan, I want them gone, wiped out."

He chuckled, "Figured me out, didja?"

She grinned, "I'm not dainty and I'm not stupid." He was stalling, she needed to know if he was wasting her time. "I been living on my wits for a long time. Will you help me stop him, or is his name as far as I'm going to get with you?"

"Smart and to the point, I like that in a woman," he growled appreciatively, but it wasn't threatening or amorous in any way. She knew without having to see much that though this man obviously had his secrets and lies, he was one of the most genuine and altruistic people she would ever meet when it came to his life, even if his work was the opposite. "Not what I expected at all of a girl who hides in a group of boys and calls herself Kisser."

"That's pretty rich coming from a blind skip-trace who calls himself a fox. I don't hide, I ain't no damsel in distress. I just make more sense with them. I don't play by girl rules very well." She paused, the things she heard snapping together like pieces of a puzzle in her head. "Fox..." she murmured and stared at the cloth covering his eyes and the snippets of scar tissue that peaked out from behind it. X's. "You're the fox on the sign. You can help me if you know him well enough to make him do something like that. I need to know what I'm up against. Please, Mr Mulligan."

He frowned, "Why didn't you turn back, listen to reason when no one would tell you anything? Do you want to die at the hands of that madman?"

"I don't want to die, but I would if it meant saving my boys. He doesn't want me, he wants them, and I won't let this happen again." She nervously picked at the tail of her braid, not looking up as he kept his impassive face turned towards her, staring with blind, covered eyes that still managed to see right through her.

A dark chuckle from him snapped her attention back from her hair. "Newsboys turning to gangs as they get too old to sell is nothing new, Girlie."

"If they joined up of their own free will it would be one thing, Old Man, but being beaten and threatened for a week before they're snatched off the streets is another. Sometimes we never see them again and sometimes they get dumped on our doorsteps, beaten to death after a few days." Her fingers splayed on the table top, white with the force of her passion. "Those boys are the only family I have, Mr Mulligan, and no one is taking them from me without a fight. Now are you helping me or should I show myself out?"

"Young love isn't worth dying for, Marta," he said, his voice a low vibration but wrought with sadness. "If Mick's already started his collection process, you can't save your beau." A frantic knocking and scratching at the apartment door interrupted them and a triumphant smile came over Fox's face. "Ha!" he hooted, smacking the tabletop, "I knew there was a kid with you!" He stood and called out, "Carlos! Tony! Quit messing with him! Come on in, Kid."

The door opened and Trout scrambled in and hid himself behind Marta, who looked over her shoulder at him with her eyebrows knitted together. "This is staying out of sight and out of trouble?" she asked dryly, making him shrink away from her. He was already ashamed of his cowardice. She sighed and ruffled his hair. "They mess with you?" He peaked over her shoulder at the two boys his age at the door and shook his head, but glared at them just the same, trying to scare them into keeping their distance. She looked at Fox who had one hand on either boy's shoulders, standing proudly as if they were his own. "Trout ain't much for meeting new people."

"He's a good hider!" the taller, darker boy with the incongruous blue eyes staring out of his deeply tanned face said.

"Yeah," the shorter, lighter complected one agreed, pushing his brown hair out of his face, "Carlos is just better at finding." He cocked his eyebrow up comically at Trout, "You wanna come play hide and seek outside? We won't let Carlos be "it," since it ain't no fun to get found after thirty seconds."

Trout gripped her sleeve tightly, and she could feel him shaking. She pried his fingers off of her and pulled him around in front, "They ain't gonna hurt you. They just want to play." He glowered at her and shook his head.

'Stay,' he signed, keeping his gesture as small as he could and flicking his eyes back and forth between her and them before digging the little pad of paper back out. **_They will laff._**

Fox leaned down between the two boys and whispered to them. They listened carefully and nodded before heading to the door. "Carlos," he said, stopping the blue eyed boy, "nice catch." The man smiled and the boy puffed with pride. The two of them waited in the hallway, while Fox turned his face to Trout, "Them boys is good people, and they run their mouths so much they wont even notice you don't. Go with them. This ain't for children's ears."

'Stay,' Trout signed again, puffing himself up, trying to look threatening to a big, grown man who couldn't see him, but who still chuckled at the stiff breathing he heard.

Marta squeezed his shoulder, trying to calm him down. "You go play, go wait for me on the stoop or head back to the lodging house. I told you, this ain't kid stuff," she ordered. "Sounded like those two knuckleheads will get their ears boxed if they so much as ask about anything you don't want to answer. Just go play. Its ok." He whined in his throat and grabbed her sleeve again, begging her not to send him out there alone. She chuckled and roughed up his wild head of hair again, "You're not a dog, quit whimpering like a whelp. Go on." She shooed him away with the other boys and from the look on his face it looked like she was sending him to a slaughterhouse. Once he was gone she turned back to Fox as he sat across the small table from her. "My man might be next in line, maybe I can save him and maybe I can't, but he's not the only boy in my life in danger. In ten years it could be that sweet kid, or our brother, Spot." Her hands clenched into fists. "No one else has ever even tried to stop it, but I'm not going to let it keep happening!"

"Those boys are no more your brother's than the nitwit you're trying to save now is a man. They aren't your family Marta."

She gave him a long steady look, one that would make a man that could see her cower, he seemed to feel it, but it didn't make him shrink, instead he looked proud. Was he proud of her? "One thing you learn when your blood ditches you the moment the cord is cut, before you're even done being born, Fox, is that blood is just that. Its the stuff in your veins that keeps you alive. Blood is not family. Family is who you love, who you commit to and who you lay down your life for when the chips are low. Our chips are always low, and I would lay down my life for any of them if it meant keeping them from what I've seen Mickelson do to them. Trout and Spot are my little brothers and Scat is my family. If I can save even one of them from this Dockside bullshit and stop it for good, then I will." She stared at the silver ring on his left ring finger and then around the dingy, unadorned flat. "I'd think you'd understand that, having lost your family already. Wouldn't you go back and stop what happened if you could?"

He sighed heavily, twisting the ring around on his finger, his mouth pinching and turning downwards as he considered. "I still say you can't save the boyfriend, but for the little'ns, I'll tell you what I know." He stood and went to the small cupboard in the kitchen corner of the studio apartment, grabbing a bottle of whiskey and two tin mugs and plunking them down in front of her. "You pour, otherwise we'll both be two sheets to the wind before I'm half done with what you need to hear." She did as she was asked as she listened to his story.

 ** _A/N: This chapter is dedicated to my dear friend Joker is Poker with a J, for letting me borrow Carlos and Fox. Carlos is from her Benjamin Hotel series and is a delightful character to use at any age, and Fox was his mentor, who is too cool to not have more times to shine._**


	7. Chapter 7

**October 20, 1901**

The sign still had that dead fox on it. The animal was greyed with age, the vibrancy long since dulled from the orange paint, but there he hung, his crossed out eyes serving as a warning to any who would dare to cross Donovan Mickelson. A cold wind blew in off the river, cutting right through her hand knit brown shawl. She pulled it more tightly around herself, trying to stave off the chill as she stared at the building that was in most of her nightmares even still, so many years after her last visit to this place. After a full afternoon of errands, being purposefully random, darting about the marketplace, she'd managed to shake her bird, Haystack and made her way to Red Hook unaccompanied. Staring at that Fox, she'd never felt more weak, more powerless or more at the mercy of another human being than she did at that moment.

A dark chuckle behind her brought a curl of disgust to her lip. "Boss man said you'd be payin' us a visit." His voice was low and gruff, rougher than it was the last time she spoke to him. She turned and raised a tawny brow at him. Despite the lack of any sort of calm or power in her bones, she managed to play the part on the outside.

"Niko," she greeted, gritting the words out through her teeth. Niko Komopolis was squat and square, thick and swarthy, built like an ice box. His black hair was down to his shoulders and greasy and his eyebrows weren't so much a pair as a single entity. Eager to the point of annoying, Mick gave him the job of patrolling the outside of the tavern so that no one had to listen to him. "You look like shit, don't you bathe, you greasy pig?"

He sucked his teeth and circled her, leering at her and leaving no doubt about what he was thinking as his beady black eyes traveled over her curves. "You look good, Kiss." Her lip curled in disgust at the use of her newsie name. She made sure that no one ever called her that anymore. That girl was gone. "You's like wine, getting better the oldah you gets. I'd take you out, show you things you ain't nevah seen before."

She rolled her eyes at him. "Is he in there?"

"Like I said, he's been waiting for you." He reached for her arm but she pulled away glaring at him and he smirked back at her. "Still got all that spice that I like. Why you trying to cover yourself up with this..." he gestured towards her dingy brown dress and equally muddy brown shawl, "respectable lady get up? We all know that what's underneath ain't respectable."

She stepped closer to him, looking up at the squat Greek man through her eyelashes. "Aw, Niko," she purred, "the things you say. You got no idea what they do to me." She took another step, hoping her face looked sweet and unassuming but knowing that as long as she smiled, he'd fall for it.

He stepped into her, grinning at her with hooded onyx eyes filled with lust. "I see you's finally seeing what there is between us. Finally forgetting Painten." One more step with his fat, flat feet brought his barrel chest pressing in against the soft curves of her feminine one. She was nearly as tall as him, she noticed as he took off his cap and ran his fingers through his greasy black curls. "I could buy you a nice dress, something pretty that shows off your assets. Show you how a real man treats a lady." Niko's sleazy arm wrapping behind her back made her want to vomit in his face, but she smiled coyly, reaching to cup his face in one hand while her other struck in quickly, grabbing him by the balls and twisting until his broad, square face turned purple.

"You keep those grimy mitts offa me, got it?" she growled, her voice low and calm, speaking right next to his ear. "I thought we learned this lesson last time, but apparently you're a bit slower than the rest of the class. So we'll take it slow." She gave a harder twist, making him squeal like a spring piglet as tears ran down his face. She kept her voice quiet and even, like she was talking to her youngest boys at the lodging house. "I am not yours. You do not put your hands on me again. If you try, I will give you another reminder like this, only I will make sure I have a souvenir to take back to The Heights with me. Do I make myself clear?" She gave a quick jerk with her left hand before releasing him and he dropped to his knees, panting and nodding frantically. "Good, now get up and take me to Mick like a good boy so you can skulk off and lick your," her eyes dropped to his groin and she smirked, "wounds."

"You crazy bitch," he squeaked out in a harsh, rasping voice, curled up on top of himself on the cobblestone street.

"Next time, don't forget it," she warned, then blanched a bit. "Is Painten in there?"

Niko wiped his nose on his sleeve as he stood up and took his time, glaring at her, adjusting himself and cursing under his breath before he would answer her. "Nah, Boss found out about your little trust in the churchyard the other night."

He leered at her and waggled his bushy eyebrows, but she just rolled her eyes, "Tryst, Dumbass. And it wasn't even that." She felt the pain in her heart form the wound that had been freshly reopened in the past week. "Only lovers have trysts, and Ted and I aren't that. Haven't been for a long time."

"Tryst, trust. Who gives a shit?" he mocked. "It don't matter to the boss. He don't like secrets and he don't like the boys touching his property." Again, that snide, disgusting smirk appeared on the swarthy Greek's face.

"I'm not his property!" she snapped, but a slow, satisfied smirk spread across her face. She might not like what he insinuated, but she could use it. "But if I was, you'd be in deep shit when he hears about you clutching on me and trying to take me out and 'show me things.'" Niko's dark skin paled and he swallowed loudly as he realized his mistake. His black eyes pleaded with her not to rat him out. "Do as I say and that grabby bullshit you pulled stays between us."

"Sorry, Toots, my orders come from Mick. Castrate me, do whatever you want, that ain't half as bad as what he'd cook up to do to me for going against him. He's the real deal, you's all bark. You got spice, I'll give you that, but no bite."

She smirked again, "Tell that to your balls. Are we going in or are we sitting here yapping at each other all day?" He reached out to take her upper arm again, to make it look like he was in charge of the situation, but she glared at him. "You grab me, I grab you. Keep that in mind," she growled. This was her meeting, he didn't get to take credit for dragging her in off the street like a trophy kill. He pulled his hand back like she might bite it off and instead bowed low and gestured towards the tavern, to the door that would take her off the streets of Red Hook, Brooklyn and into the very depths of Hell itself.

Stepping in was like stepping back in time ten years. She'd only been inside the one other time, but that one night was imprinted indelibly on her brain. She would never forget it, never live it down. It would always lurk in the back of her mind, haunting her and snatching away pieces of who she thought she was. A shudder ran down her spine as she followed Niko across the soggy floor, winding between the tables filled with men, towards the grand stone fireplace and the two armchairs that sat in front of it.

The girls, Mick's girls, watched her as she moved, a mousy brown shadow of her former self. Their once vibrant, golden-yellow silk corsets were dingy and starting to rip at the seems and their red pettiskirts were shredded and stringy from over use and ill repair. The girls themselves, though obviously mostly not the actual same girls, were not the scrubbed and painted beauties they were the last time. They looked drugged and dirty, like back alley whores. Their stockings were ripped and they slumped around in a miserable daze, delivering drinks and sitting in laps for coins, all along looking dead and empty inside.

The men watched her like a pride of starving lions, like she was the last gazelle on the Serengeti, and she never wanted to run away from any place so much in her whole life. The memories of her first trip through that room were making their predatory stares all the more menacing and her breath was starting to come out in panicked gasps, the closer to the heat of the fire she got. Niko didn't dare touch the chairs when he said, "Mick, you gots a visitor of the royal type." The despicable Greek smirked at her and it took every ounce of self control she had within her to keep from punching him in his smug ugly face until Mick unfurled himself from the depths of his pitted leather armchair and turned, stilling her with a single glance.

Donovan Mickelson was a beautiful man, a prime cut of meat in a world used to butcher's scraps . Tall, rugged, strong, broad shouldered and well kept, while he aged in the years since she last saw him, he only became more distinguished and elegant with time. His hazel gold eyes raked over her, making her insides quiver and she cursed her traitorous body for the clenching reaction it had to his charisma. She loved men with power. Scat's easy going way of charming the boys around him into doing whatever he said was just the start. Mick...Mick could command an unhealthy dose of lust from her with a single quelling gaze to another person in the room. She hated her response to him when she was seventeen and she hated herself for not being able to overcome it at twenty-seven, even though she knew full well what he was capable of.

His hair had more silver than she remembered and his eyes were framed with crow's feet, but his hands were still manicured despite the array of scars on his knuckles. Rings adorned his fingers and he twisted one casually as he watched her take in his appearance. He preened under her gaze, knowing exactly what he did to her. His golden eyes gleamed as the glow of power around him lulled her into a nearly drunken stupor of lust. She wanted to touch, taste, feel and be felt. It had been so long since anyone had. He stepped up to her and ran the back of his finger down the curve of her jaw. "My queen," he teased in a low seductive voice, "so good of you to grace your loyal subjects with you presence." His words, the title she was once dubbed with brought her out of her daze so quickly that the air forcibly left her lungs with a grunt, as if she was struck. Though the heat of the fire was too hot and the heat of his gaze even hotter, she was so thankful to be thrust back into the discomfort of reality, because there she could think instead of just feeling.

"I didn't know I was invited," she answered dryly, keeping her eyes off of Mick. At his side, but just a step behind stood a man with sad green eyes and hair that was more grey than blonde. Rudy Reynolds was once her ally in escaping this place, this life, yet here she was again. "You were the messenger," she accused, keeping her voice hard but even keeled, not wanting to give anything away as she glared directly into his eyes with her own ever changing hazel ones.

"Following orders," he gritted, also keeping his voice steeled, but his eyes were soft, apologetic and pleading.

"Beat it, this is between Mick and I. Traitors have no place in it."

"I never double crossed no one," he answered, while Mick's scalding gaze scorched over them both.

"You told me it was over, yet you show up on my damn doorstep and threaten my boys! You get nothing from me!" Rudy's head bowed in guilt and he stepped away while Mick's simmered with anger, giving Marta a thrill of satisfaction. She moved in and seated herself gracefully in Rudy's abandoned seat, settling in expectantly. Mick stared back and forth between his second and the girl making herself at home in his sanctuary a moment longer. She didn't dare look at him, but she hoped that he was puzzled as he stared into the side of her head before folding his still virile body back into the chair beside her's.

"Ordering my men around, are we, my pet?"

She stared at his hands where they rested, on top of his ankle that was draped leisurely over the other knee. His manicured nails and clean fingers were the only safe place to look. "We had a deal. Spot is not supposed to be collected. I knew you were the scum of the earth, Mick, but I thought you at least kept your word."

"Wrong," he answered simply, a condescending smile in his voice. He was enjoying himself, she could tell as he steepled his fingers, moving them out of sight, up towards his face. "our deal was that you and Ted Painten were free and your younger boys remain untouched forever. Painten came to me, begging me to take him and let him prove himself. I must say you were right about him. Disappointing. I have kept my side of our deal." He reached out and grabbed ahold of her chin digging his soft fingers into the flesh around her jaw, forcing her to look at him. She fought the stupor his eyes threatened to put her in, but once his smooth, eloquent voice sounded, weaving a web around her, all she could do was listen. "I have neither touched nor threatened your smaller boys. Spot is the same age that all the others were, that you were. Our agreement stands. The other one, the quiet one, I left him alone too," he grinned, pulling her from the spell of him, "I won't have to collect him. He'll come on his own."

"You don't touch him!" she growled, pulling her face from his grip and wincing at the bruising he left. "Either of them!"

He grinned, whipping around and trapping her in the chair, caging her with his arms around her head, his legs pinning her to the seat, his face inches from her, breathing whiskey soured breath into her face. "I wont have to. Once Spot is mine, and make no mistake, he will be mine, there will be no where else he can be once I'm through with him. Once that happens, Trout, is it? Will come trotting along after, because that's what he does. Spot will need a loyal second with an iron fist like him when he take my place and takes Brooklyn back."

"They won't. Neither one," she stammered, pressing herself back into the cushions of the chair and away from him, but he just grinned wider and pressed in further.

"They will be begging me to take them, just like Painten. Begging to get get away from you by the time I'm done with them. Spot will continue the training that you so graciously started for me all those years ago. Grooming him to be a leader, it was generous of you." All the blood left her head and pooled in her toes that were somehow now freezing inside her boots despite the sweltering heat this close to the roaring fire as he winked at her. "I won't make the same mistakes with him that I made with you, he will lead and take over Dockside with his brother at his side." He really did know everything. He watched them so carefully that he knew exactly how close those boys were to each other. Her hands, her knees, her everything was shaking. "Your gauntlet, my beauty, was nothing compared to what I have constructed for him. Whether he wins or not, you will never see the boy you know again once I'm done with him. And you will be alone, destroyed, just like I should have made sure you were the last time." His mouth was next to her ear, hissing, "You did not win, you just drew your loss out. I don't lose. Now get out of my sight." She was out the door falling on the cobblestones below the dead fox before she even knew what was going on. Her back was wet with sweat and her shawl was missing, the tendrils of hair that fell from her pompadour were slick with perspiration, but the cold October wind made her shiver.

A jacket that stunk of smoke was placed over her shoulders. Rudy knelt in front of her and pulled her to her feet. "He's going to kill you," she croaked.

"He's been threatening for twenty years, ain't happened yet," the faded man answered, holding her up while she got her wobbling legs underneath of her. "I'm supposed to escort you out of Red Hook. He don't want you snooping around anymore."

A few blocks passed before she was able to swallow past the dry wad of cotton wool that seemed to be trapped in her throat. "So you're not helping me, just following orders."

"There's more at stake for me than there was before," he mumbled. "I can't help you this time."

"I need to see Fox."

"You can't. He's gone. Mick took care of him, not six months ago. He was causing problems," Rudy answered. Her legs went out from under her, but his grip tightened and let her sink down, controlled, steady and gentle, keeping his arms around her as she sat.

"Its just me then."

He nodded. "That's what he told you he wanted. He doesn't leave loose ends, Kisser. You've been the exception till now."

He tried to lift her back up but she bucked and pushed away from him, shoving his coat from her shoulders. "Don't call me that! He killed her and he can't have them! They won't go without a fight! They're stronger than I was!"

"He's counting on it. You remember how he is, he loves a show, and he wants them to show the others that they are worthy to lead. He's sending out the collectors tomorrow, Kiss. Say your goodbyes tonight." His voice was soft, apologetic, fatherly. He was genuine and she never understood what he was doing with a madman like Mick.

Hours later, after the sun went down, after miles of walking, she entered the Lodging House, her nose red with cold, her fingers numb and her hair entirely loosed from the confines of her hairpins. The boys were all standing around, looking for their supper that had never not been there as long as she had been in charge, but she walked right past them into her room and shut the door, sinking into her rocking chair, shivering with cold. Spot was pounding on the door, but she barely heard him, nothing outside her head existed. He must have gotten annoyed and come in anyway, because suddenly he was in her face, his slender fingers brushing along the bruises on her jaw. "Marta? What happened to you? Who did this?" A snapping noise from the door made her raise her unfocused eyes to where Trout stood and the door, gesturing and pantomiming. "Yeah, I think so too. Someone grab you, Marta?"

She stared at his boyish face, and put her hand on his cheek while her eyes welled with tears. He flinched, but fought his instinct to pull away. "They're coming tomorrow. This is it," she whispered.

"Did Scat do that to you? I'll kill him."

She shook her head, both to say no and to try to clear the delirium from her brain. "Mick did it, but you can't worry about me. He has plans for you, and you...you need everything you are to make it out the back side of this."

Trout snapped to get their attention, coming further into the room. His broad jaw was set and ticking with anger and he was signing wildly, his hands flying, forgetting that the two of them only knew a handful of his signs in his anger. When they just stared back blankly he growled under his breath and scrawled out quickly, Why were you with Mick?!

She looked back to Spot and smiled tearfully, "This was supposed to end with me, but I was too stupid to think about what he would do, all the looopholes he could find in our deal." Her voice choked up and both boys' eyes widened. She never cried. She teared up from time to time and she got mushy every now and again, but nothing like this. "He's taking out his failure with me on you."

"I'll be fine, Marta. I'm always fine," Spot said quietly, though Trout snorted sardonically behind him, earning him a lewd gesture from Spot.

She laughed at how normal they were able to act, how nonchalant they could be because they were seventeen and thought they would live forever. She missed that invincible feeling. She locked eyes with Trout, feeling how his azure ones wanted to look away, not liking the intensity of her stare. "I thought I won our freedom, the four of us, but he's...Mick...he doesn't lose gracefully. I went to him, to tell him to back off, that he had no claim on Spot, on either of you." His dark brow furrowed and his head tilted to the side. "They think they're getting you too. Your loyalty to him," she nodded at Spot, "they admire that. They're going to use it against you both."

They both scoffed. "Trout ain't going nowhere. He's staying right here with you," Spot soothed. "Ain't that right?"

Trout nodded, and took her hand, 'I stay,' he signed, using gestures she knew.

"And I'm coming back as soon as I'm done kicking ass. Dockside won't know what hit'em." The blonde teen smirked haughtily, fully believing his words, but she grabbed his hand and squeezed as hard as she could, glaring deep into his icy blues.

"No plans, no schemes, no getting out of it. Just fight. Just fight and remember that we're here waiting for you. Keep your head, Spot."

"Yeah, I heard ya." Something changed in his eyes, the truth of how dire their straits were hitting him suddenly. This was no territory scuffle, this even put the strike to shame. He had to fight for his life. His eyes flicked to the side to Trout, who was staring at him, his face saying that he too was just hit with the severity of the situation. "Go find something for the boys to eat so they'll quit their bitching and then meet me on the docks with Nips. We got work to do tonight." The dark haired boy looked to Marta, who nodded and reluctantly let go of his hand. Once they were alone, Spot looked up at her, "Ya gotta tell me, Kiss." She winced at the name, even though he used it as an endearment, because Kisser was the big sister who took care of him as a kid, made sure he was never too hungry or too hurt. "You gotta tell me what you know. I can't go in there blind." His voice was shaky and small, terrified.

She closed her eyes and tried to pull her hand away from his, but he didn't let her, entwining their fingers and staring at them. "It wont be the same. He cooked my fight up in under an hour and he's been planning this for ten years. He wants you to take over, to lead Dockside. My fight won't help you, he changed the rules for me, but I'll tell you what I know about what the other guys went through. I'll tell you what I can."

 _A/N: I feel like I'm yelling into a tunnel...helloooo...lo..lo... Anyone out there? Anyone reading this?_


	8. Chapter 8

April 2, 1891

Kisser's eyes opened slowly and she looked around the dark bunk room, wondering what woke her. She sat up and stared through the darkness to the window, hoping that the moonlight would help her see. A whimper sounded from down the row of beds and then a shuffle. Trout sat up in his bunk looking down over the side where Spot slept on the lower bunk. "Go back to sleep, Trout," she called through the dark room. "He'll be ok. Pretend you don't hear anything." He obeyed, laying back down, listening to her hum. She couldn't help but smile at the way he whimpered along with his friend, worrying himself sick over whatever it was that chased Spot through his dreams.

Just as Trout gave in and went back to sleep, Spot's little voice moaned, "Nooooooo, let me ouuuuut." She let her breath out and listened to him thrash for a few more minutes, waiting for a sign that he woke himself up. He gasped loudly and gulped in air like he hadn't been able to take a breath while dreaming and then tried to lay still and quiet, covering his quiet sobs with his pillow. She sighed sadly, and began to sing "For the Beauty of the Earth," in a quiet alto. It was one of the few hymns she remembered, because it always seemed to make her feel better when things were at their worst. Listing off all of the beautiful things and thinking about them got her through nights standing alone on a stool in the middle of her dormitory while her roommates slept and days upon days locked in isolation. It seemed to have the same affect on Spot's battered heart. His whimpers died down as she sang and then hummed through the melody one more time. He never talked about his life before he showed up outside of the distribution office. He told them his name and that he was five. He didn't seem to know when his birthday was and clammed up and shut down when pressed for anything else. He didn't let her console or cuddle him when he woke from the nightmares. Even when he was shaking and crying, he pushed her away. She went to roll over and go back to sleep when he called out, "Kiss?"

"Mhmm?"

"Will you sing some more?" He sounded like an actual child for the first time in so long and she wondered if it was the dreams or the lack of other ears listening that allowed him to soften up.

She frowned, "That bad, huh?" He didn't answer beyond the rustle of blankets that she knew to be him covering his head. "You want the same one again?"

"The one with angels all night," he answered, his voice muffled.

She nodded, even though he couldn't see her and began to sing again, keeping her voice low so as not to disturb anyone else. "Sleep my child and peace attend thee, All Through the Night," she began, singing out all of the verses, calming herself as much as him. Again, she hummed through the melody a few times and then fell silent, waiting to see if he would call out again, but the bunk room was silent except for quiet snores and the deep breathing of twenty sleeping boys.

"You's such a mush," a growling voice, rough from sleep said from the bunk above hers.

She smiled sleepily, "Don't tell anyone, I've got a rep to keep."

"Yeah, a rep of having a big old soft spot for the kiddies," he teased.

She suddenly needed to see him, needed to feel him. She needed to look into his eyes and look for what he wasn't telling her. If this was their last night together, she didn't want to spend it away from him. "Scat, will you come down?" She spent the last week confident that he would tell her that they were cashing in their pickle jars full of saved pennies, nickels and dimes for train tickets and heading out of New York, or that he would show up one night bloodied but triumphant but the week was almost up and he said nothing. He didn't even look worried. He was a good fighter after all, the best Brooklyn had even after all of the boys who got locked up during the leader war were released. He was broad and muscular, but not bulky or slow. He managed to move in a lithe way that always confused his opponents. He had a chance, but she wasn't confident in his odds. He could end up like Chips, and she couldn't let that happen.

He was silent for a moment, but she heard his breath quicken at her request and watched his mattress shift above her. "You know we ain't supposed to, Noakes will throw you out if he catches us."

"Please? Just for a little while?" He climbed down and slipped into her bed, pulling her to him and placing a soft kiss in her hair. She shoved her face into the crook of his neck and breathed in the smell of him, the same sweat and soot, ink and soap smell, and now that he was older, a hint of aftershave leftover from the previous morning, that became the smell of comfort to her in dance halls and secret adventures when she was fourteen. He tucked one of his arms under his head and the other stayed on her hip, holding her close to him but trying to be as chaste as he could. Noakes allowed her to stay in the bunk room on the condition that there was no "hanky panky" going on, but her need to be close to Scatter in case he slipped out of her fingers far exceeded her need for a bed in that moment.

Her long, lean arms wrapped up and around his head, her nails raking against his scalp. As his dark hair moved back, a low growl rumbled in the back of his throat. "Kiss," he warned, his voice husky and thick. Despite her worries, the sound of his want brought a lustful smirk to her lips and she repeated the action, slowly and gently dragging her fingernails from his forehead to the nape of his neck while kissing just at the cut of his jaw and shivered at the moan that he answered with. "Quit it. You's gonna get us in trouble."

"When has that ever stopped me?" she mumbled, tasting the salt on his skin as she kissed her way back down his neck.

He chuckled and she gently bit at his collarbone, pulling a shocked gasp from him. "Never once, it usually makes you want to do something more."

"Exactly," she purred. "So why bother bossing me around?"

"Someone's got to keep that pride of yours in check and save you from yourself. God knows, you don't need saving from no one else." She giggled and punched him playfully without ever removing her mouth from his skin.

"I make sense when we're together." She quickly busied herself, kissing behind his ear, nibbling his earlobe and letting her fingers toy with the knot in the piece of jute that held the key, so she didn't have to think anymore.

"We's together, Kiss. Always," he muttered, planting soft kisses on her face. "Remember? You always make sense with me." He shifted himself downward, putting their faces even and pressed his lips to hers. She greedily reciprocated, pulling his bottom lip into her mouth. Their legs intertwined and their hands frantically sought to touch every bit of skin between them, even though they were both still clad in their long underwear.

The sparks running through her veins and the pressure deep in the pit of her belly were doing an excellent job of keeping her mind off of her worries. She could finally let go and just act on instinct. Instincts that told her that she, in no uncertain terms, needed his shirt off his body. She groped at the hem, running her hands up his stomach. "Stop!" he suddenly gasped, pushing her against the wall and holding her at arms length. "We can't do this, not now." His eyes were panicked and his breath came in pants.

The electricity of attraction left her body like a switch was flipped and she was left numb and cold. He finally said it, finally slipped up and let on that he was hiding something.

"Why not now? Why is now different?" He groaned, pulling her back in and fingered her hair while burying his face in her neck like a chastised child. "How long, Scat?" she whispered as they lay in the dark, holding each other tightly, feeling like if either one let go the other would be ripped away, never to return. She couldn't hold it in anymore, the question was eating away at her insides slowly but surely.

"How long what?" he asked the guilt weighing down the tone of his voice as he softly kissed her cheek.

"How much longer do I get before Dockside pulls you away, not to be seen or heard from again until they ditch your body on my doorstep?"

"What happened to Chips ain't gonna happen to me," he said, his normally jovial voice turning hard and cold and his body turning rigid in her arms. "Chips was a dumbass and a loner. He could barely hack being one of us; he was never gonna make it in the gangs."

Anger flushed her face and she pushed him away so hard that he slid off of the narrow bunk and to the floor. The boys began to shift and groan in their sleep as the thunk of their leader hitting the floorboard pulled them from their dreams. "And you will? You want this? Scat I just left the Convent a few years ago, I'm not going to go live under the thumb of some gang boss for the rest of my life." A soft whimper cut them off and Scat growled again, not the seductive, moaning growl from only moments before, but one of aggravation. He stood, yanking his pants off of his hook on the wall and began to put them on, never looking her way. He waved at her as he stalked to the window and she followed suit, pulling her pants on over her long underwear and heading outside. The grey light of dawn was just starting to warm the dark sky. They stood in the alley beside the building, glaring at each other in silence for awhile before Scatter snapped. "How do you even know about that?" He shoved his hair off his brow, leaving his hand on top of his head clenched full of deep, chocolate brown waves.

"How do you think?" she sassed.

"Spot."

"Among others. There's not a lot that goes on in this town that I don't know about Scatter. That's why we're strong, because I make it my business, and then your business, to know everything that I can about what goes on in these streets. I get the news and talk people down, stop the fights before they start and you fight the fights and make us likable. We're a team, but we can't be a team if we don't have trust. And we don't have trust if you're keeping secrets from me."

"We ain't got no trust if you's sending your little birds after me neither! You don't trust me to do what's best? You always did before!"

"You lied to me! I asked you what happened last week when you came home with all those bruises and you told me that you broke up the scuffle between Duke and Rustler over that floozy. But you didn't! The boys from Dockside did it and you didn't tell me. Spot told me about it and I checked with Rustler and Duke."

"I didn't want them knowing about you," he muttered. "I didn't want them coming after you too. Whether they keep me or not, I'll still get to see you."

"Yeah, if they let you live!"

"Kiss, I don't get a choice here! I got to show up when they collect me and fight my way out or say yes and keep my head down and hope that I can follow the rules better than Chips."

"Then we'll run! We'll get our train tickets and be gone before they can get you. We'll go pan for gold in Colorado or get a farm in Kansas. We can go anywhere and be anything, Ted! Don't you see? There's nothing holding us back but Brooklyn!" She threw her arms wide and swayed on her feet, the thought of all that freedom running away with her body until a flash of white on the fire escape caught her attention. "Spot!" she growled. The boy ducked back in the window. "Spot Conlon, I know you're there, now get down here." He stepped onto the fire escape, looking down at her with a scowl. The church bells were chiming five o'clock and Noakes would be up soon to wake the bunk room. He sauntered down with more swagger than any seven year old had any right to have and the arrogance of him, caught red handed spying on her private conversation flared her annoyance and she grabbed his arm more roughly than she meant to. "What are you doing here? Why aren't you in bed?" He yanked his arm away and glared at her, his pupils blown wide so that his normally pale blue eyes were deep and dark. She groaned internally, this wasn't what she needed, one of Spot's fits on top of everything else.

"Where you and Scat going, Kiss?" he asked quietly, his voice surly and low. The little boy begging for one more song was gone, and in his place was a tiny person, too old, experienced and mistrusting to be a child, too small, fragile and sensitive to make it in the adult world alone.

"Nowhere, if I have any say!" she snapped, turning to send Scat a poisonous glare that he replied to by throwing his hands up in the air and turning his back on her. She tried to calm the anger in her voice but between all of the stress of the past week weighing on her and the few restless hours of sleep she got between interruptions the night before, she was losing control quickly. "Now what have I told you about listening in on me, huh? You have a whole borough you can listen to, but I told you to stop following me around and spying on me! This is between Scat and me. Its not your business."

"Youse gonna get on a train and leave?"

She let out an exasperated huff, "This is why I tell you not to listen to me! We're just talking!" The kid gave her a hurt glare and she softened up, like she always did where he was concerned. She squatted down in front of him. "If Scat and I ever buy train tickets, we'll buy four. Where I go, you two go. The four of us against the world, right kid? Don't worry, I ain't leaving you behind." She pulled away and gave him a long, serious look in his eyes, he searched her face, looking for the lie. "Now please, go get ready to sell. If you see me today while you're looking around, you stay away. Make sure you're looking and listening for all the good stuff that I miss, ok? I need those eyes and ears out there." He gave her another one of those searching looks, looking for the reason to stop trusting her.

"You's leaving, I know it," he accused in a voice rough with panic. "You's dumping me and running off to the fox place with Scat and me and Trout is gonna be alone because no one else wants us!" His eyes blazed, the blue of his iris almost entirely swallowed by his pupils. "Well, who needs ya!" He ran back up the fire escape and shoved himself through the window. Both of the older kids cringed at the crash that followed. "Get away!" he bellowed. "They don't want you neither! No one does! Quit following me around everywhere! You's just gonna leave too! Go ahead! Do it now!" Her heart ached for him. He was tearing the room up, the protests of the older boys was enough to tell her that. Trout stared out the window at them with a fresh bruise blooming on his cheek, confused and hurt by Spot's words.

She turned back to Scat who still had his back to her. "Please," she whispered placing her hand on his shoulder blade. He shrugged it off and tensed his back for a moment before dropping the stance and letting his shoulders droop. "Please Teddy, I'd give up everything but them and you."

He turned and smiled sadly, twice she called him his real name, and as he got older he found he liked to hear her say it. His hand reached out to push her wild hair back, but she ducked away, unwilling to accept affection until she had her answer. "We have the boys, they's our family and if I run, it puts them in danger and I can't have that on me conscience. They'll start taking the boys, the little ones like Spot if I run. Is that what you want?"

She froze, her arms wrapped tightly around her middle. "We really have no way out?"

"I got no way out, Marta. Me. You can do whatever you want. You're free. I made sure that you would be free. Stay here and run Brooklyn, go West and get your house and your grass or stay with me and be with me, no matter what I choose." Scat looked down at her, pleading with his deep, warm green eyes that she would understand, but she couldn't. He huffed and kicked a crate. "You don't get it because you's a girl and you's ain't been on the streets long enough, Kiss. All I got in this world is a reputation, a jar of pennies and a girl. I gotta protect what's mine."

Spot took off down the street with Trout hot on his heels while she fumed and tried to convinced herself to do the smart thing even though she knew exactly what she would do. At least they were together; they would be fine if they were together. Trout would keep Spot from getting himself in too much trouble and Noakes would put them to work cleaning things up when they got back. They would look out for one another, even if this choice she was grappling meant that she couldn't anymore.

She turned her deep hazel eyes on top the boy that her heart belonged to, maybe the only person who had every loved her in the way that people loved each other in books and the sketches in the vaudeville theaters. He was still begging, pleading her with his eyes to understand that he didn't feel like he had a choice, that he was protecting her, but she couldn't. "You've got to protect what's yours? Well, so do I," she snapped and stormed up the fire escape to get dressed.

 _A/N: Lots of little important things happening in this chapter. My version of Spot Conlon has a bit of PTSD, hence the little flashback attack after the bad dream. Um, I'm just talking here to try to start a conversation...or talking to myself. Hey Joker, another thing that I write that no one but you reads!_


	9. Chapter 9

****October 21, 1901****

After a night spent planning and doling out orders and assignments, Trout, Nips and Spot staggered back to the Lodging House in the wee hours of the morning, exhausted. The other two quickly fell into bed and let sleep take them, but the electricity zinging in Spot's veins let him know that any sleep he got would only put him more on edge. That sleep would be filled with nightmares that he couldn't fully wake up from, leaving him more one edge and less able to keep his wits about him on such an important day. He sat on the edge of his bed and pulled a small notepad the size of a deck of cards out of his coat pocket, letting the zipping sound of his thumb dragging across the edge of the pages keep him company until the morning church bells told him that it wouldn't be long till Marta came through to wake everyone to sell. He sat, taking up more space than he really needed, watching the boys rise with a cool look. His elbows rested on his wide spread knees with his long slender fingers intertwined in the void in between, glaring up at them all through his eyelashes as she walked from bunk to bunk, shoving, smacking and yelling at each of the boys to get up and greet the day. Her lips smiled, but her face was sad and tired. He sat on his neatly made bunk, watching her pass from bunk to bunk rousing the boys. When she passed him, she placed a gentle hand on his shoulder and squeezed for just a moment before moving on, drifting back to the sanctuary of her room once everyone was up. Some of the boys looked at him nervously, they'd have to be dumber than a box of rocks to not notice that both Marta and Spot had been acting off the past week or so, but they all knew better than to question him.

It was only once the bunk room was completely cleared of all the other boys that Nips and Trout sauntered out of the washroom and took their places, leaning against the bunk opposite of Spot's immaculate bed, awaiting orders. "You two ready for today?" he asked in a low voice, twisting his hands around his cane and tapping it on the floor. He looked up at Nips, "I need her. The real her. Coach her through, once she gets her feet wet, she'll pick it back up fast. If I'm not back, one way or another, by this time next week, then you take things over." Nips agreed, shoving his hands in his pockets. "Train Haystack up, the kid's got good instincts, he just needs time to grow up a bit." He slipped the key on its worn piece of jute off his neck and held it out to Trout, who grasped it in his large hand and tucked it into his trouser pocket with his pencil and his harmonica. "Get her out, she's just gonna twist herself up in knots sitting here." He paused, tightly gripping the shaft of the cane, hoping that he wasn't forgetting anything. "Both of you keep an eye and an ear out for reports from Haystack, he'll be with her wherever she goes." He stood slowly, and spit in each of his palms and held them out to the two lieutenants who spit in their own palms and shook his hands firmly. The two lieutenants moved like a wall down the stairs with him following behind like a man going to a firing squad.

He broke off from the two for a moment at the bottom of the stairs and knocked on Marta's door. "Kiss, you gonna be ok?" All the answer he got was a soft, muffled sob that made his stomach hurt. "Everything's gonna be ok, Marta. I promise." He fled before he had to hear her cry anymore, reclaiming his place behind Trout and Nips and they marched as a unit to the open gates of the distributing center. They picked up their papers and split off in three separate directions, each carrying on as if it was any other day.

Dockside waited until he sold the last of his hundred papers. He moved around all day, never staying in one selling spot too long, because he felt like he needed to see as much of his city as he could. He was no dummy. The arrogant talk was all a front, who he needed to be to lead the boys, but inside, he was a realist. This might be his last day of the freedom he'd known and treasured since he lit it out of his mother's tiny apartment with some goon hot on his heels at five years old. He stopped, his back against a wall out in a busy square and lit a cigarette, but only got a single drag off of it before something or someone slammed into him so hard that all the air was knocked out of his body. Before he could even start to recover from that, a hand was against his head, slamming the side of his face into the bricks and then the world went dark.

His heart was pounding and he was running as fast as his tiny legs would carry him while someone either much faster or much bigger than him followed though endless corridors. It was dark, lit only by small gas lamps and someone was chasing him. His bare feet slapped the bare boards, but his eyes never left the light from a single window at the far end. He never reached the window, never, in all the years he'd dreamed this same thing. The walls were dark and grimy but that window glowed like the sun was right outside of it. He could hear the big heavy footfalls getting closer and feel the ragged breath of the person on his neck. Just as the huge hand clamped down on his shoulders his eyes flew open.

"Hey Kid, you awake?" a voice called. It was tinny and muffled, but familiar, if only Spot could make his brain work enough to figure out who it was. A noise came out of him, he expected it to sound like a scream or a yell, but it was more like a broken groan. He wasn't sure where or when he was, all he knew was that it was dark, damp and that his head hurt while the rest of him just felt too heavy to move. He was sprawled on his face on a dirt floor and struggled to pull his leaden left leg up to his chest and then the right so that he was crouching on his knees with his forehead still on the ground. He tried to lift his head, but a wave of nausea too intense to swallow back ripped though him that it was all he could do to not lay his face in the rapidly growing puddle of vomit between his splayed hands. He couldn't make his body obey him, he could barely move beyond dragging his head to the side to rest on his forearm. The smell of his own sick was making him gag, but he couldn't get away from it. "Hey Kid, you in there?" This time he recognized Scat's voice and swung out on instinct, but only managed to knock himself over onto his back. He groaned as his vision swam and wavered and he choked back another wave of nausea. "Easy," Scatter scolded.

"What'ja do to me?" Spot slurred.

"I didn't." Scatter's face pinched with anger. "My loyalty came into question. I'm just following orders." His jaw was so tense that he was hard to understand has he spoke through gritted teeth.

"She deserves your loyalty more than they do," Spot growled through his tight throat.

Scatter pushed his heavy bangs off of his forehead and grimaced, showing his missing tooth that Marta knocked out when they were fifteen. "Are you going to let me take a look at you and clean you up? Or do you want to sit in your own piss, blood and vomit a little longer?"

"I don't need your help."

Scatter snorted out a dark peal of laughter, "She won't thank you for dying in her name, kid, anymore than she will for trying to go into this willingly. You can't win here."

"I ain't a kid," Spot mumbled with his last thread of consciousness and drifted back into the darkness listening to Scat chuckle at him. Bastard.

"Almost there, Kid," Scat grunted, gesturing towards a rundown brownstone the next block down. "Come on, get your legs under you. You's makin' me do all the work." Spot tried to counter with a retort that was full of wit and snark, but all that tumbled out of his mouth was an unintelligible mumble that even he didn't know the meaning of, but he did manage to straighten his legs and take a little of his own weight. Scat woke him up only a few minutes before, hauled him to his feet and told him to walk. His legs were wet noodles, his head was still killing him and his shirt was stiff with his own dried blood, sweat and god knew what else.

A tiny woman opened the door of the row house, not even five feet tall, but her ego loomed over her, filling the doorway. Her face was that of a teenager, but her green eyes were old, tired and listless. He tried to lift his heavy head a little higher instead of letting it loll on his shoulder in a half hearted attempt to look at her in her dingy and threadbare chemise, her black stockings with holes in them and a wrapper that was once fine velvet. It hung from her petite frame as limp and dull as the stringy blonde hair that fell around her too thin face that held the yellowed shadows of healing bruises. Once upon a time, both the girl and the wrapper were beautiful, but now both were used to the point that their luster and radiance were gone. They were muted, gauzy shadows of their former selves. She glared at the two of them boredly as her glassy green eyes traveled up and down their bodies. The way she looked at him, the way her eyes paused not on his eyes or his injuries, but his partially opened shirt and his crotch made him squirm. He tried to fix his glare on her to make her stop but between her never bothering to look at his face and the feeling that he was going cross eyed as he tried to focus on her smirking face, his cold, steely glare went to waste. She appraised them both before letting out an exasperated, rasping sigh. "Come on then," she said, waving a hand through the door frame and taking a step back.

"Mickelson sent us," Scatter said, faltering a bit.

"I know why you're here," she snapped, her voice harsh and streetwise, "he tells me more than he tells you. Now are you going to get inside or waste all of my coal letting my heat out into the night?" She narrowed her eyes, her nearly translucent eyebrows knitting together in impatience. Scatter grunted as he hoisted a slumping Spot up. The jostle pulled Spot back to reality and sent a fresh wave of nausea through him. He swallowed loudly, willing himself not to puke in the rather terrifying girl's front hall. She closed the door behind them and looked them both over once again, her eyes again resting at uncomfortable places on their bodies. The smirk on her thin lips left no doubt as to what was on her mind.

Scat cleared his throat, "He might not look like it, but the kid ain't exactly a featherweight." Spot craned his neck around to shoot a poisonous look at his companion, who pointedly ignored him as he asked the girl, "You got someplace I can put him or not?"

She airily waved her hand towards the stairs, "Upstairs, second door on the left. Drop him off, I'll take care of the rest. Mick expects you back at the Fox." Scatter's lips pressed into a thin line and his dark brows furrowed. "Don't get your knickers in a twist, doll," she purred, seductively running her bony finger down Scat's stubbled cheek and neck. "I got more than one use in life. Get him upstairs and settled and then scurry on back to Mick where you belong." Her voice lilted in sing-song at the end, teasing and childlike. He got a bit of a sick thrill at hearing Scat called out for being useless, and let out a weak cough of laughter. He knew at a young age that Scatter was only a figure head leader, but he was kind and funny and made Marta happy.

"Just remember which of your many talents Mick's paying you for with him, Darcy. Leave him alone unless you's going to fix him up to be ready for the boss. No funny business."

"Are you still here?" she asked boredly, sashaying away to another part of the main floor.

Scat growled under his breath and tried to hoist Spot up again. "Come on, Spot, find your legs for me, man. If you's alive enough to laugh at me then you's alive enough to help get us up the stairs. Arrogant little shit."

Spot put all the effort he could must into into stepping slowly up each stair and not letting his legs buckle under him. "Where is this?" he slurred.

"Dockside safe house," he answered as the climbed the last step and came up to the upstairs hallway. It was narrow and dark, the kind of corridor Spot hated. Scat seemed to feel him tense as he took in their dim surrounding with his one eye that wasn't swollen shut. "You's gonna stay here until you're ready to face the boss." With that he, none too gracefully, dropped his cargo on the bed. The sheets smelled like dust, but considering the state of the girl downstairs, dust was better than some of the imaginable alternative smells. The warmth from the furnace, the soft mattress, the dusty sheets and the sucking void of his aching head all converged on Spot at once and shoved him into a deep sleep.

He didn't know where he was anymore, but instead of the musty, cold smell of the basement or the familiar smell of the bunk room, he only smelled dust and lilacs. The smell of the flowers was strong and heady and sweet. It made his head spin and his stomach churn. "Easy," a quiet, decidedly female voice said in his ear, "rest and save ya fightin' for Mick." She had the rough drawl of a street kid and she didn't bother to hide it.

"Fucking flowers," he grumbled as something wet and cold was swiped across his head, down his uninjured cheek. It followed down his neck and chest. His skin broke out in gooseflesh at the touch and a small gasp escaped his lips.

A laugh rang out, girlish and just a little bit mean and biting. "Sorry that you ain't got a nose for my perfume, Mick and the others like it, and they pays my bills." The wet cloth distracted his foggy brain, as it dragged back and forth from his collarbone to his navel. He peeled his eyes open, well, the one that wasn't swollen shut, and blearily regarded the blonde sitting at his side. She still looked dirty and downtrodden, but some of the snark and raw eroticism that she displayed so vigorously around Scat was gone, and she just looked sad, even though she smiled.

She dipped the rag into a washstand bowl and rung it out, ready to continue what she was doing, but his hand flew up and grabbed her wrist. He lifted the sheet that covered him from the hips down and peaked under it. Try as he might, he couldn't contain the flush of embarrassment that rushed to his skin at his nudity, but he could attempt a smirk, even though the skin on his face felt sore and too tight for his bones from all of the swelling and open wounds. "Didja enjoy the show?" he asked smoothly.

She snorted, "Please, honey, ain't nothin' under that sheet that I ain't seen a hundred times before. I dunno what they dragged you through after Niko knocked you out, but the filth on you left me no choice but to strip you down and wash you or burn the sheets." She went back to sponging, delicately wiping away the grime of the street and the basement of the Fox's Lair from his skin.

"You's a real charmer, letting a guy know you value your sheets over him."

"Sheets don't come cheap, but boys like you are like newspapers, two for a penny, around here," she answered smugly.

"Honey, there ain't no boys like me," he growled rather seductively. "You's talking to Spot Conlon. I'm one of a kind."

She laughed that laugh again and he marveled at its ability to be sweet and girlish while also ringing with bite and anger. "Cocky ass street boys are all alike, same as the cocky ass thugs your kind turns into. Between taking care of you when you get the shit kicked out of you and being handed around between you bummahs when the boss decides you deserve a prize for a job well done, I've seen your face a hundred times in the five years they've had me here, Conlon."

"I'm not like them," he snarled.

"Right. Now, can I get back to cleaning you up so you can get back to sleep?" He nodded, keeping his open eye trained on her while she worked.

"You gotta name?"

"Why?" she asked.

He rolled his eye, but winced at the pain the action brought. "Because I like to keep a detailed record of who gets to see me family jewels," he answered smarmily.

"Darcy Reynolds," she said, putting aside the bowl of water and painting the side of his face with a slippery salve from a tin. It smelled pungent and burned his eyes so badly that tears ran down his cheeks and his nose ran. But it dulled the ache deep in the bones of his face. She pulled the sheet and blanket up over him, "I'll go see what I got in the way of skivvies for you, and then you should sleep as much as you can. Like I said, you're gonna need all that piss and vinegar when Mick gets ahold of you."

"Darcy, I ain't staying. Mick can finish the job that the asshole who picked me up started, but I ain't joinin up." He dropped the glare and stared at her, long and hard and earnest, and she didn't look away. "This ain't where I'm supposed to be, and I'd rather end up in a potter's field than trapped here the rest of my life. I been free since I was five and I ain't going back to captivity now."

A ghost of a smile crossed her pale face before she covered it. "If you want a chance at living then you really need your rest. Mick doesn't take well to being told no." Her voice was soft, all of the cruelty and hardness gone as she pulled her dingy wrapper closer around her body.

He smirked, "Me neither." He sighed and went to scrub his face with his hand, but she stopped him and guided the hand back to the bed and giving him another sad smile. Her face was almost pretty when she wasn't scowling bitterly...and when her jaw wasn't flapping. His body began to feel heavy again, and he could feel the weight of exhaustion pressing him down into the mattress as she stepped out of the room. .

"Good luck, Spot," she whispered before she blew out the lamp and drew the curtains closed, not noticing the pair of glittering blue eyes watching from the street corner. Trout blew into his hands to warm them and took off running for the lodging house with hope pooling in his gut. Spot was alive, now they just had to make sure he stayed that way.

 _ **A/N: Here we go, he's inside Dockside! Thank you to my guest reviewer! You'll see a few different POV's (though all in the third person) as we go through, mainly Marta, Spot and Trout, because they are the "family unit" affected here. What do you think of my tiny dynamo Darcy? She's a spitfire, I adore her.**_


	10. Chapter 10

April 2, 1891

She stood outside the unassuming little tavern, staring at it like the building itself was her enemy. Arms crossed over her chest, hip stuck out to one side, she waited, watching for any sign of movement from inside. She'd taken the time that morning to wet down and oil her curls before braiding them, and the smell of violet and sandalwood wafted out as the sun warmed her as she stood in her best clothes. Her papers sat beside her boot in a neat pile while she watched, at first only selling to those who came to her, lost in her thoughts as she was. She wondered if she could stand to spend all of her free time in the hovel in front of her. Could she and Scat really be happy in this life? At that moment she couldn't see how they could have any future at all if he was going to hide decisions that would change everything from her but the thought of a future without him made her sick.

As the city woke up and more and more people began to move around the streets, she had to pick up her papers and actually sell them, but it was easy pickings. The neighborhood made quick work of her stack of papers leaving her time to stand, leaning against the corner of a building, staring across the square at The Fox's Lair until a boyish but deep voice growled, "Pape please," as a huge, square hand held a penny out to her. She ignored him, pretending he wasn't talking to her since she quite obviously had no papers to sell to him.

"Sorry Mister," she said without looking his way, "sold me last a while ago." The proper speech that was drilled into her at school always caught the attention of boys like him and just then she was in no mood to deal with being flirted with.

"Names Niko, Sweetheart. How 'bout you forget about this place and lemme take you out for dinner?" She snorted derisively, chuckling under her breath at him. He growled at her rejection and moved in closer. "Then you's best be moving along. There ain't nothing for a sweet thing like you in there." His gruff voice, still pitchy with youth went from flirtatious to unpleasant and moody in an instant.

She raised her well-arched, tawny eyebrows, glancing at him out of the corner of her eye. "Its a free country, I can stand here if I like." His body was squat, stocky and square, just like the rough hand that he handed her the penny with. He looked at her with eyes so dark they were nearly as black as the hair that peaked out from under his oversized bowler hat, falling in oily curls behind his ears.

"Move along before someone thinks you's casing the joint."

For the first time, she looked the Greek full in the face, and smiled up through her eyelashes, soft and seductive. "You gonna call the bulls on lil ol' me?" she teased.

He laughed making her stomach and all her bravado drop. "You seen any bulls since you been here? You been here all damn day, you seen a single copper in all that time?" He leered at her discomfort. "They know better than to come 'round here. You shoulda known better too." He grabbed her, his square hand wrapping around her bicep and digging into the meager flesh there.

"You're doing me a favor. Take me on inside, Dollface," she smirked, "I'd like an audience with your boss." She swaggered in beside him, swallowing the yelp pressing its way up her throat as his thick fingers pressed toward her bone.

The room was dim and the gas lights did little to chase away the gloom. Men lounged and drank everywhere even though Kisser hadn't seen a single person go in or out all day. A haze of thick, sweet cigar and pipe smoke hung over the tables and the vapor of cheap whiskey in the air was so potent that it made her throat tickle and her eyes water. The same brown, sweaty boy smell that she tried to ignore in the bunk room every evening was also there, but it was different, thicker and more bitter. Niko kept his hand firmly on her upper arm as he led her between the clunky tables and chairs and to the middle of the room. She held her head high, looking down her nose at the room full of crooks and thugs.

On a small stage at the back of the room, half a dozen girls in ochre yellow corsets made of silk trimmed with black lace at every edge, jet buttons in the front and black satin ribbons lacing them in the back over scarlet knee length pettiskirts, lush and full with draping and layers danced. Their rouge stained faces and coal rimmed eyes looked dead behind the smiles they plastered on as they pranced in unison, kicking their heels back behind them and then their toes up in front and shaking their precariously contained bosoms at the drooling men at the tables. An old man played rinky dink piano music at one side of the stage for them to dance to, mopping his face with a handkerchief from time to time.

"What have you got there, Niko?" A deep, smooth, almost charming voice cut through the room, stopping all of the other low rumbling voices mid sentence. The place went silent and all eyes went either to the leader, lounging in an arm chair in front of the great stone fireplace or to her and Niko in the center of the room. Her breath caught in her throat as she took him in. He was a beautiful man, with his dark hair and deep skin, but his eyes were a startling, light, golden hazel that had no business glowing out of his dark complexion. He was older, somewhere above thirty five, but there was and undeniable appeal to his face. The air of unapologetic arrogance and class that held him above every other man she ever met intrigued her a bit.

"Found her outside, selling her papers, staring at the place like she was up to something," Niko answered with a smirk in his voice. He leaned down, his breath hot on her ear, "She's a beauty, ain't she Mick?" She squirmed away from the heat, ducking her ear to her shoulder. "Got a mouth on her, though. Demanded to see my boss."

The man in the chair smiled, steepling the thick fingers of his wide hands and giving Niko a nod to bring her closer. "And what would the boss want with a sickly looking, mouthy, little street urchin like her?" The man propped his feet up on a footstool and watched her, his eyebrows raised in amused curiosity. His dark hair was touched with silver at the temples. His clothes were much like Niko's, store bought, clean, but nothing fancy. He barely glanced at her, carrying on like she was a statue or a mannequin in a dress shop and her anger flared. She found herself wanting his attention desperately.

"If you think I'm going to let this ugly troll speak for me, you've got another thing coming," she snapped, finally freeing herself from Niko's grasp. She turned quickly and punched her, first in the gut with her right hand, then in the teeth with her left. The satisfying "oof" he let out and the slice of pain as his teeth cut her knuckles sent a rush of air to parts of her brain that had gone dormant under the blanket or responsibility and worry. The room burst into laughter. She stared Mick in the face, the smirk never wavering on her lips. She was in control of this situation and it was exhilarating. A whole room of adult men was hanging on her every word.

The boss smiled at her, and again it was almost charming, but this eyes gave her pause. Now that he finally was looking at her she wanted him to look away, to let her go. "You caught a live one there, Niko. Now what can I do for you, Miss…"

"My name is Kisser, and I'm the leader of the Brooklyn newsboys." She willed her hands and voice not to shake or stutter. "My partner, Scatter, and I share the responsibilities and make all decisions together. You can't have one of us without the other. I'm the brains, he's the brawn and the charisma, you'll find him a disappointment on his own." It killed her to say that, no matter how true it was or how mad at him she was. He wasn't a disappointment to her, he made sense in her life, but on his own, in this world of fights and threats, debts and under the table deals, he would be nothing but a lackey. "The kids of Brooklyn thrive because of me, and because I have him to back me up."

"I hear a proposal coming on," the man teased, "do please get on with it."

She smiled, sweet as sugar laced with arsenic, "I'm sorry, sir, I don't talk business out in the open nor with people who don't have the manners to introduce themselves."

"Mickelson. Donovan Mickelson." He stood and bowed low to her, it was an act meant to patronize, but that ended up giving her a reputation that saved her life more than once. "If your Majesty will follow me, I'll find someplace more intimate in which to entertain the Queen of Brooklyn herself."

She lifted one arched brow looking sour and displeased as he stood. "A firm handshake goes much farther with me than mocking," she advised holding her hand out. He smiled the same sly smile and took her hand and brought it to his lips. "I see we're not going to work past this issue of my being a girl so easily," she grumbled. "Lead on, Mr. Mickelson. I'd like to get this over with, the whole rest of my life depends on it."

He led her up a set of back stairs to a dark hallway full of doors. By smell alone, she knew what the room he took her to was used for, the lingering whiffs of human musk and cheap perfume spoke volumes as to what the sparse furnishings and bare mattress were regularly used for. He flopped down on the bed, letting the springs bounce him as his fingers laced leisurely behind his head. "Here we are Miss Gatcyk." Her eyes flew wide and he smirked at her surprise. "Yes, I know who you are, I knew who you were the moment Niko dragged you in, otherwise I would have let him drag you up here on his own, and I promise you," his voice dropped to a sinister whisper, "he wouldn't have been so polite. Now, you have your privacy, you have my name and my attention, so what can I do for your highness?"

She sneered, crossing her arms over her chest like the boys did when they wanted to appear bigger and more intimidating, forcing her shoulders to look more square and wide than they did. "I want my life back the way it was before you and your goons entered it. I want those ingrates downstairs to keep their hands off of Scatter and for you to never threaten my younger boys again."

"What's so precious about the life you had two weeks ago? A dime a day, a smelly bunk house, stolen kisses outside a convent and a couple of brats trailing behind you…are they really worth sacrificing yourself?" He grinned, rising from the bed as her eyes blazed and her chest began to heave with anger. He was good and he knew too much about her. She wasn't used to anyone having the boost on her when it came to information. She prided herself on knowing everything that went on in her streets, but she didn't know as much as he did. "That's right, I have 'little birdies' too, and I pay mine so they tend to get what I ask them for."

"Family," she growled, her body rigid and unwavering from the aggressive boy stance. She was afraid that any movement would betray her weaknesses to him since he already knew too much for her taste. "The first one I've ever had, and freedom, Mr. Mickelson, neither of which am I willing to give up without a fight."

"So what do you propose, your Highness? State your terms and we'll see if we can't come to some kind of an agreement." He stood from the bed and leaned casually against the wall as if they were discussing the rules for a stickball game, not hashing out details that could change the course of her whole life. Then again, her life was a just a game to him, and she was just a toy.

"I want the same deal the boys get when you haul them in off the streets against their will," she answered simply not allowing her face to betray her annoyance at his continued teasing and mockery. She wasn't the a queen anymore than Scat was a king and she knew that if the tables were turned and Scat was standing in her shoes now, Mick would not be teasing him in the same way. "I want what I earned as the leader of Brooklyn, the option to join or fight my way out. I won't be pushed to the side because I'm just a girl."

"Given that choice would you join or fight?" He quirked an eyebrow and she cursed herself for the stirring of desire in her gut. Why was he affecting her like that?

She smiled, that poison laced smile, "I think you already know the answer to that."

He nodded, curt and disappointed, but covered it quickly. "So if you win, you want freedom from us for both you and your little boyfriend. But what if you lose? What makes this little deal of yours worth my while?"

"The way I understood the terms for the boys, if I lose, I'm dead," she replied, confused by the question.

"Yes, but you're asking me for a favor and in return, I expect a few concessions."

She shrugged, "I have named my terms, Mr. Mickelson. Name yours."

"If you win, your freedom and Ted Painten's will be granted, my boys will not bother you again, but the rules for your challenge will be different than they are for the boys because you, my dear, are different." She rolled her eyes and he chuckled darkly, running a rough finger down her cheek. "It's not every day that someone barges in here demanding an audience and a gauntlet from me, and I want to make sure everyone involved learns a valuable lesson from this experience." He paused again, checking her face for a reaction, but she remained blank, listening intently. His voice held the same bemused, patronizing lilt that grew to a menacing growl as he continued. "The boys won't be out for blood, just for you to beg them to stop. They will be allowed to use any means necessary to make you plead for mercy. Any cry for help will be deemed as failure on your part. Just like for the boys, they will queue up to challenge you, and if you make it through all of them, your final challenge is to take on me before you see daylight again."

"And if I fail?" Her voice was the low whisper that commanded more attention from the boys than any yell because they listened to her words not just the volume of her voice.

"If you fail my collection of Scatter goes on as planned, both of your prized pets will be collected and roomed for life in Dockside and you, my beauty," he paused, closing his eyes lustfully and all of the erotic energy that she felt radiating off of him, but didn't want to acknowledge was blatant, raw and out in the open. The lust was plain in his incongruent eyes that looked almost right in his face once they were darkened by his dilated pupils. "Oh, I have such plans for you. You will live with me as my personal companion." She grimaced, trying to contain her urge to retch theatrically. He chuckled in an unpleasant way and her heart stopped for a beat. "And if you try to run from me or if that darling mouth of yours gets tiresome, then I will dress you like my other dolls downstairs and you will dance and entertain the men until the light goes out in those fiery eyes of yours. And if you still feel the need to cause trouble, I'm sure I can find a nice opium den or brothel looking for a two bit whore that I can sell you to." He grinned, all the charm drained from his handsome face and with it all the air rushed from her lungs in a single breath as if she'd been sucker punched.

He prowled around her in circles as she considered, a bemused smirk quirking his at his well formed lips. She couldn't ignore the fact that, even as he was threatening to sell her to a brothel, she was attracted to him. But as she watched him leer at her she remembered why she came, why she was in his presence in the first place and Scat's wide wonderful grin, beautiful despite or maybe even because of the gap left by the tooth she knocked out filled her mind's eye. She couldn't even remember what he did that made her angry enough to strike him anymore. The warmth of his soft, tanned skin filled her and the smell of his clothes and his hair sparked that feeling of life in the pit of her stomach. No matter how the man in the prostitute's room intrigued her and beguiled her, he would never make her feel full and right the way Scatter could without ever touching her. If the looks on the faces of those girls on the stage meant anything, his attention would bring nothing but emptiness. Her short life had already seen enough sad, empty days.

Scat said that if he came quietly they could still be together, things wouldn't have to change. If she took Mick's deal and lost, she would have to see Scat every day, but she wouldn't be able to to touch him or kiss him. Her hands would never be allowed to tangle themselves in that unruly mass of of chocolate brown hair. The way Mick looked at her, the way no one downstairs in the tavern dared to speak once he raised his voice a fraction of a decibel told her he wouldn't share her, especially not with the likes of Scatter. "Time to make a choice, Majesty," he said, his teasing but seductive voice pushing her anger to the limits of her control. "Are you going to run home and pretend this little meeting never happened, or are you going to accept my challenge? If you leave now, you"ll probably be home in time for supper. If you stay, we can have you patched up and ready for business by tomorrow night."

She looked up at him, meeting his eyes that held more cruelty than she could ever imagine existing, but something else too, over confidence and that pulled the corner of her lip upward as hope filled her. She was always at her best when the odds were at their worst. "You're so sure I'll lose," she mused. She already knew what she would do, and knew that he did as well.

His dark, groomed eyebrow raised. "Does that mean we have a deal?"

"Scatter goes free and the little boys are left alone?" she asked, repeating the terms before agreeing to them.

"Along with your own freedom," he agreed, but raised a finger, "providing that you win, of course."

"Of course," she agreed.

"If you do not win, you are mine and Scatter is collected as planned, you will be taken immediately to my home and your boys, your brothers, will be taken elsewhere to be trained. Painten will get here just in time to see you make your debut on the stage if you choose not to cooperate." His grin was cruel, but still beautiful. His teeth straight and white, his eyes crinkling debonairly at the corners.

Her palms were drenched as she rubbed them together, going over the terms again and again in her head. Finally, she wiped her right hand off on her skirt and held it out to him, "Deal."

He shook her hand firmly, the shake he refused to give her downstairs in front of the men, and strode out of the room without another word to her. She took a deep, shuddering breath before trailing behind him back down to the hushed but still busy room below. The piano man was no where to be seen and the girls were dispersed throughout the crowd as the two reached the bottom step. "Boys!" he greeted loudly, drawing their attention back to him. "We have ourselves an unexpected challenger! Lock the doors." Hands ensnared her arms and steered her to a cellar while her head swam with panic and remorse. At that moment she knew that she would never again be the girl that she was when she left the lodging house only a few hours ago, pissed as hell at Scatter. Those days were over, and darker days were ahead.


	11. Chapter 11

Spot didn't know it, but the time in between getting knocked out in the streets and making his way to the brownstone was not a matter of hours but a matter of days. Marta watched for him each night as she stood behind the desk signing the boys into her register and collecting their nickels and pennies for their bed and supper. Each line that was filled, each name scrawled deepened the lines around her eyes and mouth and the crinkle in her brow. When he didn't return to the lodging house the second night, the hushed whispers began to roll through the bunk room. Only Trout and Nips knew what was really going on and while Nips preferred to play it cool, pretending that Spot was off on one of his solitary walks through the city, entertaining himself by showing up at random bunkhouses unannounced just to see the newsies there panic, Trout was too busy watching Marta suffer in silence.

Spot's voice the night he asked Trout to take on the responsibility of helping him rang through Trout's head constantly. "She needs someone she can trust by her side." He had paused, shining the gilded top of his cane on his pant leg. "A little give and take, thats the way to get somewhere with Kisser." Trout had stared at his friend, knowing what Spot was getting at and shook his head. "You want something from her, you's gonna have to give something in return and your secret is the kind that will melt her like butter." He stared Trout down with his steely blue eyes and said, "She ain't all there right now. I don't know how we missed it, but she ain't been there in a long time. She just got really good at faking it. She needs you to tell her the truth, Trout. Tell her what she already knows but ain't seeing. I'll keep them busy; its up to you and her to take them down."

She was on her hands and knees in the washroom with a scrub brush and bucket, grumbling to herself about what dirty slobs this batch of boys was. Without a word or even a sideways glance her way, he tucked his cap into his pocket, dipped a second brush into her bucket and got down on the floor next to her and began to scour the floor boards. She sat back on her heels to watch the dark, hostile looking boy with a look of wonder on her face. She smiled softly and proudly, and bumped his shoulder with hers as she went back to work. "You doing ok?" she asked. He shrugged and shot her a nervous smile out from under his thick black eyelashes. "Looks like you got something on your mind." He nodded and dropped his eyes back to the floor before waving his hand outward from his face. "Later? Ok, we can talk about it later." They went back to scrubbing in companionable silence until they were at the washroom doorway.

She took his brush away and took her bucket down to the kitchen to rinse it out, raising an eyebrow when he followed her. "Is it later now?" she asked. He took a deep breath and nodded. Spot said to get her out, get her walking. He crossed Brooklyn on a daily basis and could only think of one place to take her, his special place. He blew his the breath out through his lips with a frustrated noise. She chuckled. "Must be some deep shit Trout, you got some paper ready?" she asked, settling herself at the little table where they usually had their talks. He shook his head and pointed to the door and then made his fingers walk across the countertop. She smiled, nodded silently and went to get herself a coat.

The cold wind whipped around them as they crossed the bridge, pinking their cheeks and noses and biting their exposed fingers, but it didn't bother him as he stopped around midway and stared upstream. She came up next to him, the wind loosing her hair from its knot on her head, and stared into the distance. "Now I know its deep shit if you're bringing me to your spot. Last time I was here with you was..." He grabbed her hand and stopped her with a pleading glance. This week was full of enough loss without bringing up old ghosts. Her eyes softened apologetically, "Sorry, I didn't mean to bring her up." She turned to look out at the water. "I never understood what it was about this spot that had you so enamored, but I guess I never thought to ask either."

He smiled half-heartedly and signed, 'Asshole,' making her let out a quick bark of laughter. He sucked in and let out a few deep breaths, preparing himself. "Th-th-that," he muttered, pointing at the island in the distance. It was soft, stuttered and not entirely clear, but there was no denying that he spoke or what he said. He let the remainder of the air he took in out and a small, proud smile toyed with his mouth for a moment.

She stared at him, eyes wide with shock before peering at the little slip of land far in the distance. "Trout, you know where Spot is. He's not at the Refuge over there and we can't save him."

He gruffly growled and scratched his head, not knowing how much he would be able to get out. It had been a few years since he'd spoken more than a word or two. His voice was dry and scratchy and, as was always true for him, the words didn't want to come out. What was perfectly formed in his head got stuck and jumbled somewhere along the way to his mouth. "Ssssss-ssssssy...ssssssy-um." His cheeks burned and he couldn't look her in the eye as he waited for her to decipher his stammered syllables.

"Yeah, there's an Asylum there, some hospitals too…"

Frustrated already, he rubbed at the back of his neck and dug a scrap of paper out of his pocket and a pencil and scrawled I ran. They were going to put me there.

"Your parents? But you're so smart!" she exclaimed. He quirked an eyebrow at her. "You are! Honestly, I always thought Spot would make you his second." Her face hardened, "Seems Mick thought so too."

He shook his head again. "Sssssssay nnno."

She cocked her head to the side with an amused kind of a smile, "He asked and you said no?" He nodded, staring out at the asylum again. "Why?" He turned and gave her a withering glare. In his mind it was fairly obvious why he was not fit to be the second of Brooklyn. When he refused to discuss that further, she pursed her lips and also looked at the far away slip of land, leaning her elbows on the handrail. "So, what's the angle here, Trout? What about today, after everything else, we've been through together made today the right day to bring out the big guns? The big talking guns? You didn't talk when you were little, no matter how mad you got that we didn't understand. You didn't talk when you broke your arm and couldn't write with that hand for months or when you gave your notepad to that girl and she ran away with it. So why now?" He wouldn't meet her eyes, just hoisted himself up onto the rail and pulled his harmonica out and began to play. She stared at him, her patience visibly dwindling. "Answer me! What is this about, Trout?"

He lowered the harmonica and took a deep breath and, with a great deal of concentration, stuttered out, "S-s-s-s-spot."

She stepped closer to him, too close. He knew her moves, the face she made as she jabbed a finger into his ribs. "He told you to speak to me?" Trout nodded, his face pale. "So the stakes are high and he wanted you to give me something, something you wouldn't do for anyone else to help garner my trust?" His head shot up and his bright blue eyes met with her hazel ones. She searched his face. "And you went along with it?" He nodded and dropped his gaze to his boots, leaving him no way to defend himself from the left jab that hit his jaw moments later. He was still reeling when she stalked off towards the Lodging House again. He ran after her, heading her off on the front steps.

"What does he want?" she demanded. Trout stuttered, he tried to tell her, but couldn't make his mouth cooperate. Finally, he got frustrated and pupped his notepad and pencil from his pocket.

 _Finish what you started._

She narrowed her eyes at him and he drew back a bit readying himself for anther hit, but it didn't come. She turned and walked briskly to her room and shut the door quietly. He pressed his ear to her door, beating himself up in his head. Being locked out was not what Spot had in mind when he told Trout to gain her trust.

Out in the hall, Nips trudged up to him. "How did it go?" Trout's bushy black eyebrows slammed downwards towards his eyes and he let out an exasperated huff. "That good, huh?" Nips fidgeted, picking at a hangnail and darting his eyes upward to Trout's swollen lip. "What happened to you, anyway?" Trout flipped him the bird before pantomiming a punch to his face, kissing the fist as it hit his mouth, which was his sign for her before she became Marta. A thunk and Marta's voice yelling out a long stream of curses interrupted them. It was silent again for a few nerve wracking moments before the door swung open and banged against its hinges.

She stepped out and glared at them, her arms crossed over her chest and one hip popped out as she stared them down. Her left hand was wrapped in a cloth, covering the knuckles she bloodied. They quaked in their boots, and Trout's muscles all coiled in on themselves, waiting for another hit to his face. "I'm not ready to deal with you two." She took a deep breath, closing her hazel eyes, digging the heels of her hands into her eye sockets. "You're damn lucky I haven't tied you upside down to the dock pilings!" She turned, resting her hot forehead on the door jam. When she spoke again her voice was low, even and calm. The tremor of rage was gone. "I'm going out. I need air and a walk and...just...out. Out of here and away from you punks so I can think. You two will stay here, in this house, until I get back. Do I make myself clear?"

Nips answered with a reverent, but still mumbled, "Yes, Kisser." Trout nodded emphatically drawing an X over his heart with his finger.

She looked at Trout, her cheeks flushing at the sight of his bruised face. "Put a washcloth on that lip."

He nodded and made his sign for sorry.

She nodded curtly and back swept out the door. Nips let out a long low whistle and looked at Trout. "Well, thats the most scared I've been in a damn long time."

Trout nodded and clapped Nips on the shoulder. 'I go,' he signed.

Nips' brown eye widened, "Are you crazy? You heard her, we's on house arrest!" Trout just shrugged though and made a gesture that he knew Nips would know. The tall, lanky blonde sighed, "Yeah, yeah, I'll cover for you." Trout grinned and took off running, not even bothering to change his clothes, for the Stuyvesant neighborhood, northwest of Brooklyn Heights. It was only when he was outside of Moriarty's Tavern that he stopped to catch his breath.

Carlos Fuentes and Trout Cooper were an odd pair of friends. They only saw each other at Moriarty's and each knew very little about the other beyond what they talked about in the dank and dingy tavern. Carlos needed his anonymity for his work as a skip-trace, finding people who didn't want to be found, the underworld's version of a private investigator and Trout...was Trout. They could limitedly banter and tease each other, enjoying the closest thing to a normal friendship that either would ever have, away from the hierarchy of newsboy life and out of the shadow of the gangs that Carlos was known to work for. The other newsies knew that Washington Avenue in Bedford-Stuyvesant was Trout's turf, but they didn't know that he was so fiercely protective of it to keep his partnership with the young Spaniard a secret. He needed Carlos' secrets to be kept safe so that Carlos could keep working on finding someone for him, someone Trout lost. Those who still remembered JoAnna thought that after two years, Trout put his broken heart to rest and gave up like any normal, hot blooded American male would, but that was the thing about Trout Cooper and the kind of friend he was. "Loyal as a damn dog," was the way Spot put it and it was true. He was the fiercest sort of friend and Spot was counting on that trait to pull them through.

The moment he stepped in the door, he locked eyes with Jethro Moriarty behind the bar. The aging bartender tilted his head across the small room, where Carlos sat, slumped down in a chair with his feet on another chair and his hat over his eyes. Trout nodded his thanks to Jethro and headed over, roughly shoving Carlos' boots off the chair so he could sit down. "About time you showed up," the dark boy said, pulling his cap off to reveal blue eyes that glowed eerily out of his olive toned skin. His hair, every bit as dark as Trout's, but sleek and full and smooth, fell over his forehead before he raked it back with his fingers. "Your little leader buddy's been gone twenty four hours and you're just now getting here? Slacker."

Trout sneered and flipped the Spaniard off as Jethro set a glass of ale in front of the new arrival. Before he could touch it, though, Carlos had the glass at his mouth and drained half of it. Trout reached over and slapped the back of Carlos' head so hard that the darker boy's nose dipped into the liquid. Trout sniggered as his friend sputtered. "Ok, ok, truce!" Carlos coughed. "You know my stance on Mickelson and all things Dockside. You know I won't get involved and you know why." His eyes blazed with malice and his cheeks drained of color.

'I know,' Trout signed and then used his fingertip to trace the letters F-O-X on the tabletop.

Carlos nodded. "Unless you've got them under lock and key and want me to light up the funeral pyre, I can't help you, Eli."

Trout pulled out his notepad, undeterred by his friend's hesitance. He knew Carlos would pull through. _I need to find Mick. The place with the fox sign in Red Hook. Where is it?_

Incredulous, Carlos exclaimed, "Why the hell would you think I would help you get there?"

Trout shrugged and pulled his paper back. _You're a good guy and you know I need it. My friends need it._

Those blue eyes, lighter than his own bright cerulean ones regarded him solemnly. They might not talk about much, but Trout was an expert reader of people, and very few people in Carlos' life told him he was good. Good at his chosen profession maybe, but not a good person. "Nothing good happens to people who go looking for Mick, E. I don't like the bastard, the only thing I'd like is if he was dead and buried six feet under, but I still keep a good twenty block radius between him and me. I'm not sending you to that snake pit."

Trout frowned. 'I know you know,' he signed

"'Course I know!" Carlos snapped. "Its my job to know. But..." he paused, searching for any reason to deny Trout the information, "I ain't found her yet, and I'm not gonna let you commit suicide before I make good on our arrangement. That's what snooping around there is. Suicide."

With a scowl, the silent boy downed the rest of the ale in his glass. _I can't keep my promise if I can't find them._ He slid the note across the table and waited for Carlos to quickly scan the words before rubbing his open palm in a circle over his heart and stammering, "P-p-peassss."

Carlos sighed and waved at Jethro for another round. The old barkeep set down small glasses of clear liquid that burned Trout's eyes and nostrils in front of each of the and Carlos held his up in a toast. "Salud, Amigo, y vaya con Dios."

After swallowing the mouthful of fire and sputtering for a moment, Trout wrote, _You know I don't know what you said, right?_

The edges of Carlos finely drawn mouth lifted, but his concern was plain on his wrinkled brow. "I don't put much stock in invisible fantasmas in the sky, but you're going to need all the help you can get if you're determined to go into Dockside territory." Late that night, as Trout watched Scatter drag Spot from the tavern basement and out into the streets, Carlos' parting words hung in his ears. "Make sure you call me if you need someone to help light up that funeral pyre. I owe that much to Fox."

Hours later, after the lamp was blown out in the upstairs window of the brownstone, Trout stumbled through the streets. He'd watched Scatter drag Spot to the brownstone a few blocks from the Fox's Lair and now he was too tired to pick his feet up anymore. He lost his footing and slid into the alley next to the lodging house, landing in a puddle with a groan. When the side door swung open, he quickly ducked behind some crates as Marta stepped out into the night. She stopped for a moment and stared upward into the dark sky, scrunching her nose a bit as she pondered, before wandering out of the alley and into the street without looking down. Her feet knew exactly where to take her, moving smoothly and silently down to the docks, with her hands stuffed deep in the pockets of the trousers that she wore instead of her normal skirt and let her normally straight shoulders slump. She still had the saunter down pat, the slouching curve of the back that said she didn't care where she was, the swagger that owned every cobblestone her boots touched. It was all coming back to her so easily. She leaned lazily against the beams that held up the foreman's stand where Spot liked to sit, staring out at the water.

His hand absently felt the silhouette of the key through his pocket. A gust of icy wind, full of moisture from the river blew by and she shivered. As she hoisted herself surprisingly easily up the rope ladder to Spot's perch in the tower, quickly settling down to sit cross legged on the platform and stare out at the river, he sighed and pushed his hair off of his face. She kept extra blankets in the small office behind the desk, so he snuck back to the lodging house as quickly as he could and, when he returned, wrapped a blanket around her shoulders. "He's so stupid sometimes that I just want to smack him. Mick is relentless and this is so much bigger than just Scatter and I and him and you." He pushed his cold hands out to sign go on. She sighed, pulled her hair over her shoulder and began to twist and play with sections as she spoke. "Chips was the leader when I first started selling. He wasn't the first to go missing, I don't think, but the first one I knew of and when he disappeared, it was civil war in the bunkhouse. Boys breaking into groups supporting one leader or another, soaking each other in the streets."

Trout's eyebrows knit together, so dark against his pale skin in the moonlight. "K-k-k-key?" he asked, subconsciously moving his hand like he was turning a key in a lock. For a respected guy, being left the key was an honor. It was the vote of confidence of the leader who went before.

Even in the dim light he could tell she went pale. "The key was with Chips and after a week or two, half of the bunkhouse was locked up in the refuge for fighting in the streets. Scat and I were the oldest kids left, so we stepped up and did what we had to do." She smiled in a far off way, a way he knew was only for her fond memories of Scatter. "He was the fun guy everyone wanted to talk to and I was the mean mother hen making all the rules in the background and sending those who misbehaved to time out. Our first morning as leaders, they left Chips' body on the doorstep of the lodging house and Scat cut the key off of him before the bulls took him away." She shivered again, trying to shake the memory out of her mind. "I bet you remember the week before he left. When you came with me to see the blind man." He nodded, remembering it well. She didn't know that he was still in touch with the blind man's apprentice, and she never would. "I made the biggest ass of myself." She swallowed loudly, her face puckering with the bitter taste of regret. She reached out and threaded her arm into his, but pulled away. "You're wet. Where have you been?"

Looking in her eyes, he could see the girl he met when he was seven years old. A girl who could hold a boy in her arms soothing the shattered pieces of his heart, but might also call him a shit as a term of endearment, and could shut up an entire room of bickering boys with a single glare or clearing of her throat. The anger earlier showed him that the Kisser he remembered was still in there, she just needed a little push. He touched the key through his pocket again. "Ssssssssspot at Mmmmmmmmmick ha...ha...ha-oat." He grimaced at the sound of his poorly shaped words but looked up at her, waiting to see if she was going to make him try again.

She stared at him a moment, and he could see her rolling the words around in her brain, trying to turn his stuttered speech into anything besides what he actually said. The color in her eyes began to change, all of the blue seeming to drain out of the green leaning hazel until they were almost entirely gold. "How do you know that?" He took his pencil out and scratched out a quick version what he saw over the course of the night. She scootched closer to him to read over his shoulder as he wrote. "Could you get back to the brownstone again?" He nodded and drew her a map and she nodded as she watched before looking up to meet his eyes. "Tell me everything you saw. Every detail. I don't care how silly or small something seems, I want to know about every roach and rat that scuttled across your boots tonight." He felt his face break into a grin before he even realized why he was smiling. She sounded just like Spot, but then again, maybe Spot sounded just like her.

He wrote down everything he could remember about what he saw and she read over his shoulder as he scribbled as quickly as he could. When he was done, she sat, silently digesting the information, sometimes rereading his account, sometimes staring stonily at the water. "I need the Manhattan leader on the bridge, midway at noon. Go get Nips and Haystack up." Trout smiled sadly and reached into his pocket as he stood, the Leader's Key dangling from his fingers in front of her eyes.

"This y-yours," he said and waited for her hand to close around it before jumping down to the dock and taking off back towards the lodging house to follow orders.

 _A/N: Hi! So I just published a companion piece to this and My Perfect Disaster, called Return to Brooklyn. If you like my writing and my characters, you should check it out! Thank you to the impeccable Joker is Poker with a J for creating and letting me borrow darling Carlos. Thank you to my two guest reviewers. Im glad you like it, but worried about why everyone is so surprised...Is it the summary? Is it something else? I'd really like to know so that more people will check it out without hesitation!_


	12. Chapter 12

**April 2, 1891**

It was like an indoor fair in that dank basement. The room was full of people yelling, placing bets on the different rounds while Mick bellowed like a carnival barker trying to entice more boys to agree to fight. Sitting among all the noise, it was hard to believe that only an hour had passed. The dancing girls sat in a row on crates so they had front row seats of see what happened to girls who didn't know their place in Mick's company.

Niko was dancing around on his toes and barking, "Me, me, Mick! Lemme take the first crack at her!" like an over-excited terrier. She watched, nonplussed, as more and more men put their names on a large blackboard on the far wall. "They normally use this when they fight for rank," one of the girls said as Kisser unbuttoned and removed her nice blouse, regretting her decision to look her best for this confrontation that morning. She wished she had on pants, but was thankful that she wore long johns underneath her clothes instead of just a chemise. "For what it's worth," the dark haired dancer said, pulling Kiss from her thoughts, "my money's on you." She smiled a smile so harsh and angular from disuse, that it made Kiss's jaw hurt to look at. "I'm Clarice." Before Kiss could answer, Clarice pulled her forward, pressing her face into her gold corset. "Look distraught and shake your head like you don't like what I'm saying," Kisser stiffened, but did as she was told. "Before you start, make him agree to a surrender word, otherwise he will declare every noise you make as a white flag. Don't give him room to bully you. You make the rules and demand that he agree." She shoved Clarice away and scowled at her, but gave a curt nod and pushed the knit sleeves of her pink undershirt up above her elbows and pulled the hem of her skirt up between her legs to tuck into her waistband, she couldn't afford to be tripping on and getting tangled up in the fabric.

The swarthy kid was ready, fired up and pissed off from the punches she snuck in on him in the tavern above. His lip was still swollen and split, but the real damage was to his pride. Mick stepped between the two of them and began bellowing out the rules they agreed on. When he got to telling the men what constituted her losing a round, she cut him off. "To be clear, for the match to be over, I have to concede with the word 'mercy.'"

'That wasn't the deal!" Mick seethed, turning to glare at her.

"Maybe not," Kiss taunted with a smirk, "but what if I'm a screamer?" She smiled charmingly as Mick's eyes rolled back in his head, loving her talking dirty to him and playing into the fantasy he built up in his head about what he would do to her when she lost. "Don't want your boys getting their jollies off and losing focus at every scream and squeal, costing them a win. If I don't beg for mercy by name, they don't win." He was still wrapped up in his fantasy and could only nod in agreement before waving at them to start.

Niko circled her, talking trash, but she didn't move other than to slowly turn her body to keep her eyes on him. He threw a few false punches, trying to scare her but she didn't flinch, moving her body calmly and smoothly out of the way of his fists. They swung wildly, and as he got frustrated at his failure to take a girl down quickly his movements only got more wild and less effective. He was an idiot, she realized, an idiot that Scatter would have had knocked out cold within moments.

The opportunity to trip him and use his body against him came and she took it, hooking one foot around his ankle as he charged and then kicking him right in the ass just to make sure he went down. He barely got himself up onto his knees before she had both hands dug into his black hair, gripping tightly, and smashed her knee into his face. She threw him down on his back with all her might, kneeling heavily with one shin on his Adam's apple and the opposite boot heel digging into his fingers. He let out a small, strangled moan that might have been a scream if he had full use of his windpipe and squeezed his beady black eyes shut for a moment before glaring up at her. She held him there, pinned to the floor, glaring back wordlessly for a long time and the room stayed uncomfortably silent as they all waited for the stand off to end. "Are. You. Done?" she asked, her voice low, quiet and overly annunciated. His face went from tan to red before verging on a terrifying shade of purple. "Say the word and I'll let you up." He dug the fingers of his free hand into her calf, just as he did to her arm earlier while the small amount of air he could get in or out came in tiny, weak grunts. "I will let you die if you make me; better you than me." His grip began to falter as his body started to shut down without air and she begged him with her eyes to tap out of the fight. She didn't want a death on her conscience, but she wouldn't risk her own life either.

Finally, he wheezed out, "Mercy," tapping her leg just as his eyes began to look bugged out and bloodshot. She stood, the carnival atmosphere gone from the nearly silent room. No one was paying attention to Niko, they just left him lying there on the floor. Kisser was still and staring at nothing, praying to a deity that she didn't trust to let her get back home. "I'm so sorry, Scat," she whispered to the tiny square of dark sky. She wondered if the boys were worried about her yet, it wouldn't have been the first time she skipped supper because she didn't think she could sit in a room with all of them without punching someone. They wouldn't really start to worry until Noakes called up for lights out when she wasn't sulking in her bed with her back to them. Spot would notice, she knew, but wouldn't say anything unless he woke up in the night. Poor kid, he was going to be alone with his demons.

Slowly, the noise built back up as more bets were made and the next in line was cheered and jeered. She heard the footfalls too late to move away when Niko's arm wrapped across her throat, pressing her back to his front in a suggestive way while his other hand went to the soft curve of her hipbone. She let out a clipped gasp, her hands clawing at his forearm, trying to remove it. She struggled for air as he whispered in her ear, his voice tight and harsh from the swelling left by her leg. "You bitch. I shoulda taken care of you first thing this morning like I wanted to." The hand on her hip scooped under her top and up towards her breast. He grabbed, squeezing the soft tissue too tightly as he drew her earlobe into his mouth. She squeaked in protest. "You shoulda been mine," he grunted.

She felt the sharp point of the blade under her ear as it was held firmly under Niko's bulging Adam's apple. "Nothing here is yours, boy," Mick's suave but now slightly unhinged voice warned. They all watched, all afraid to breathe as they waited. Niko's arm tightened around her forcing another small squeak out as the blade pressed harder into his throat. She didn't dare look at anyone for fear that she might cry. She blanked her eyes, staring intently at one of the small, high windows on the cellar wall. Dusk had come, the light was soft and grey and she could see the boots of the people rushing by on the street above. When his grip went lax at last, she dropped at his feet a hot trickle of blood running down her neck into the collar of her long johns.

Someone dragged her over to the makeshift bench where the dancing girls sat. "Take care of her," he ordered gruffly and pushed his way back through the throngs of men. Their backs blocked her view, but between Niko's screams and pitiful apologies and the hard packing sounds of expertly thrown punches, she didn't want to see.

A nudge at her shoulder forced her back into her body, where she swallowed thickly against the swelling in her throat. Clarice held a glass with a nip of whiskey in it in front of her face. "Drink it, Sweetie," she said, her raspy, harsh voice sounding soothing and kind. "It'll help settle your nerves." Kisser stared at the glass blankly. "It's ok," the brunette assured, "its just whiskey. You ain't gotta be afraid of none of us. Take the glass." She did as she was told, slugging back the burning shot and grimacing as it slid down her throat. "You did good out there. Mick and Rudy were impressed, though they would have been more impressed if you had the balls to just kill Niko." Though she could hear the smirk in Clarice's voice, she winced away from the words.

"I'm not a killer," she croaked, rolling the glass between her palms absently. Her confidence in her ability to come out the other side of this was wavering. "Who's Rudy?" She was tired beyond anything she'd ever felt before and every joint in her body was beginning to tremble, but she couldn't afford to rest.

"Mick's right hand man, the guy who brought you over to us." Kisser dragged her eyes up to meet the soft blue-grey ones of the girl. She wasn't much older than Kiss herself, but the look in her eye was ages older. "Rudy's a stand up guy, about the only one of them in this room. He's the calm and reason to all of Mick's…" she waved her hands around as her eyes turned upward, "whatever it is that makes him tick."

"Insanity and erotic prowess straight out of a penny dreadful?" Her voice came out without her knowledge, she didn't even recognize it as her own when the sound hit her ears. The girls all snickered and tried to hide it behind their hands. Clarice kept up a calming stream of conversation while the men watched Mick beat the hell out of Niko in stunned silence. Mick had lost his mind over Niko touching her. The force and frequency of the blows along with the muttered curses showed his crazy, obsessive passion. She stored that thought away incase she needed it.

As Mick ran out of steam, Rudy stepped in to haul his boss away to calm down while some of the other men picked Niko up off the floor and carried him away to get patched up. Clarice looked at her, the moment of peace was over. "Look, we can't cheer you on out loud or nothing, but know that we's rooting for you, huh? No one but Mick wants to see you stuck here and if there was anything we could do, we'd do it."

"But you can't," Kisser sighed. "It's my fight that I got myself into and I have to get myself out. I'm the Queen of Brooklyn, after all." With her face angled down to the dirt floor and the low light, Clarice didn't see the roll of her eyes that punctuated the statement.

"Yeah, well, all these assholes fancy themselves kings by association to Mick. I figure it'll take a queen to knock 'em all down a few pegs. A smart woman can turn a man's head any way she wants and make him think it's his idea. Far as I can tell, you're pretty good at that on your own turf. Now you just gotta figure how you can use it to your advantage with these bums."

She was ready when Rudy came to retrieve her. The next seven rounds were a never ending stream of physical torture. The men weren't afraid to hurt her with theirs fists and boots, that she was prepared for. She wasn't ready for them to bite, kiss, suck and grope like they did. Her skirt was ripped to shreds and one or her long john's legs hung limply around her ankle, torn from the body. Her neck was covered in what she would call love bites if they were from Scat, but from these animals they were just hickey's, unwanted marks. Blood ran from her nose and the corner of her mouth and her teeth were stained with it. After the seventh round, Clarice begged Mick to give the challenger a break. Sneering at her weakness, he granted it and Clarice stepped into the ring where Kisser stood, swaying slightly on her feet. Even after a slap to the face, Kisser couldn't make herself look the other girl in the eyes. "Look at me, Kisser," the dancer demanded, but Kiss struggled to comply.

Between the shock, the adrenaline withdrawal, and the shame, Kisser was not her normal, brash self anymore. Clarice's voice softened as she coaxed Kiss over to the bench and held a glass of water to her parched lips. "Drink for me, Sweets," she cooed in her raspy voice. "You's doing so good out there, ya beau should be proud to get to be on your arm. You's got Mick and Rudy left now. Rudy don't want you here anymore than I do." She pretended to clean a wound on Marta's face so she could lean in closer. "He's gonna leave you some openings. Don't waste them."

"I'm not worth you two getting yourselves killed for," Kiss croaked.

"Rudy's got four little girls at home, and he sees them in each one of our faces. He'd do anything to keep girls away from this place. And me? What do I got to lose? I come from nothing and I'm still nothing, just rouged up and squeezed into a pleasing shape. I don't matter. You can change things around here. You's the real deal, Kisser Gatcyk." She smiled crookedly. "Remember, watch close," but Kiss was dragged back to the ring before Clarice could finish her sentence.

Rudy stood to take his turn and everything about him as he stepped up, rolling his sleeves to his elbows, looked hesitant, regretful and unenthusiastic. He stood stock still as his soft grey-green eyes stared at her. "You should have gone home when he gave you the out," he mumbled so as not to be heard by anyone but her. "Your boy would have done fine."

"You're probably right," she answered still panting and trembling a bit. "But, I've never been known for making smart decisions where he's concerned."

Mick was growing impatient. "Enough foreplay you two!" he yelled out, his voice still rough and dangerous. "Get on with it! Make a move, Rudy!" Rudy swung on command, grazing her cheekbone as she jumped back.

She retaliated with a right hook that caught him weakly on the jaw below his ear and a jab to the gut. He fought hard enough that Mick wouldn't suspect but made some purposeful mistakes. As the fight carried on, he left her an opening to knock him down and she took it. He caught himself on his hands, one knee slamming to the limestone floor while the other stretched out behind him. She took one look at him and acted without thought, care or consideration. Her foot kicked out slamming into the side of his knee and he went down like a sack of bricks, cursing a blue streak. He glared at her through tears of pain and she stared back in horror, clutching her middle with both arms. Her stomach cramped and knotted, making her will herself to not throw up. She won fair and square under the terms she and Mick agreed on, but it felt like a loss, a betrayal of who she was. He helped her and and she hurt him, possibly crippled him. His glare softened as her struggle played out plainly on her face and he nodded to her.

"Well played, Miss Kisser," he grunted. " That was a good fight, a victory earned fairly." She shook her head as she bit her cheeks to keep from sobbing. This wasn't how victory felt. Mick was winning, changing her. Even if she made it out of the building, she was never going to be herself again. That's, she realized, what the gauntlet was really about, making sure that he won, no matter what.

That left only Mick. He stood and sauntered towards her, his vest off, his shirt, still splattered with Niko's blood, opened a bit with the sleeves rolled to his elbows. In all of the commotion of the previous rounds she forgot he was the final barrier between her and freedom. His eerie golden eyes glowed out of his face. "You look tired, my beauty," he teased.

"I assure you," she gritted out between clenched teeth, "I'm fine. There's light at the end of the tunnel now. I'm almost home."

"Such spirit," he chuckled patronizingly. "I'm truly going to enjoy breaking you."

She grinned for the first time since entering the basement, touching the end of her braid as it fell messy and untied over her shoulder, remembering the last person who tried to break her, who cut off her crowning glory in that effort. "I just don't break so easy." His sly, flirtatious smile faltered at her confidence. "People been trying since the day I was born, don't flatter yourself thinking that you'll succeed where so many others have failed."

Suddenly his hands were on her throat and she was powerless to pry them off. She never had the chance to throw a punch or even move away. His body moved fluidly and silently, caressing, breathing heavily, all while keeping the vice grip on her throat with one of the softest hands she'd ever felt. With the ease of a puppeteer, he swept her legs out from under her and dipped her back, planting a fierce, heavy, hurtful kiss on her mouth. He moved down to her collar bone, biting hard at the tendon there. Her mind screamed in rage all the things that were trapped in her throat. He easily forced her to the dirt floor and pinned down sitting on her pelvis and trapping her elbows under his knees. He ripped open the buttons of her undershirt and plunged his face into her cleavage. Hot tears filled her eyes as he bit into her flesh hard enough to bruise. She could feel the sickening hardness of him growing against her hipbone and momentarily wished she could just pass out already and get what seemed inevitable over with. He looked up from his ravaging and glared at Clarice and the other girls, those nightmarish eyes sending them a thousand silent warnings. Clarice looked at her sadly and the words the dancer spoke to her earlier sounded loudly in her head, echoing over the whine of oxygen deprivation that buzzed ominously in her ears.

She was desperate and had nothing left to lose. That alone gave her hope. Nothing could be worse, even death would be a relief. The gleam of inspiration plain on Kisser's face made Clarice frown. Kiss lifted her hand and wrapped it seductively around Mick's calf, caressing him through his pant leg. He groaned with pleasure as he went back to her chest and lifted his knee, allowing her to have one hand back. She teased him expertly, feather light touches drawing him to the brink of oblivion. While he panted and moaned she had a few seconds to sweep her eyes around her, taking inventory of what was within her reach. When he came down and started to get handsy again, she returned to teasing and touching him, sending him back into the fog of his own passion. She could never thank Niko enough for being such a sick sleaze. If Mick hadn't shown her how thoroughly he was wrapped up in the idea of her, she would never have had a chance. On the third try, she saw the whiskey bottle, still sitting next to Clarice's boot. She arched her back, pressing her tits into his face and grimaced as she slid her hand up his thigh towards the bulge that he kept grinding against her. He was a slave to passion, and passion he would get. As he panted and groaned, she stretched back seductively and felt her fingers brush the cool glass. His grip on her throat had slowly loosened until it was just tight enough to keep her held down and make her heart pound heavily under his hand. She let out a moan and felt his body shiver in response, letting her shift herself towards Clarice and the bottle.

At first she thought she imagined it but she could have sworn that Clarice's boot swept across the dirt floor to cross over her other leg and tapped the bottle forward just the fraction of an inch that Kiss needed to be able to grab it. As engrossed as he was, Mick didn't see her eyes flick up to meet with the dancer's and Clarice didn't look back, just tensed the corner of her mouth momentarily. The bottle was heavy in Marta's hand, almost too heavy to lift after everything that happened but she brought it down over his head as hard as she could and hit her mark. The force at which he fell on top of her startled her as all of the air in her lungs left her body at once. Glass and whiskey rained down on them both and all she could do was lie still and try to convince her body to draw new air in. She was pinned under his unconscious body, blood from a wound on the back of his skull dropped, hot and wet, onto her cheek. She couldn't push him off; her body was still hurt from all the other men and shaking too hard from this one. The more she realized she was trapped, the more she began to panic. None of them were going to help her, the bastards. They were too afraid to help her, and she wouldn't ask for fear of losing what she already won.

Slowly, her lungs started pulling in air again, letting her yank her other arm out from under his knee and roll his heavy body off of hers. On shaking legs, she looked down at him, empty. Just like he wanted her. Her eyes slowly went to Rudy. Who sat sprawled across two chairs with his leg propped up and splinted. "Can you promise me it's over?" she asked, her voice a deep tenor from the strain and bruising on her throat.

"It's over," he agreed sounding as tired as she felt. "The terms you agreed on will be upheld and you're free to go."

"And Scatter and Spot won't be harmed? Or any of the others?"

"Mick will uphold your deal." She stared at him a moment longer, searching his face for any trace of a lie.

Clarice helped her put her blouse back on over her torn long john shirt and gave her a blanket to wrap over her shredded dress before guiding her to the cellar steps and out into the silent darkness of the earliest hours of the morning. "All hail the queen," the dancer whispered and slipped back inside, leaving Kisser shivering in the darkness.


	13. Chapter 13

**October 23, 1901**

Trout and Marta leaned against the check in desk on their elbows watching the boys group down the stairs. She leaned casually, one ankle crossed over the other and somehow managed to look regal doing it. Every one of the boys spent at least a few days in love with her, usually in the time before their voices dropped. She was beautiful and scary, every bit as much the Queen Mother of Brooklyn as Spot was the King.

When the boys arrived at the bottom, still bleary eyed and grumbling, the glint of sunlight on the worn brass caught their eyes. The key hung there, as innocuous as could be against Marta's cream colored blouse, her deep chestnut hair falling around it. Trout wasn't sure any of them were even breathing as they stared at it. "What are you bummers gawking at?" she demanded, making sure to put some biting Brooklyn drawl into her words. "You got papes to sell, now get outta here!" They all jumped a bit and looked at each other, before hustling out the door. Marta grabbed Pickle aside and held his hand while the others streamed out into the cold fall sunshine.

He was so tired after having been awake for two days straight, the desk was the only thing holding him up as she knelt in front of the small boy and smiled at him. His black hair was still wet from washing his face, as was the collar of his shirt and his blue eyes were still hooded with sleep. "I need someone to go on a special mission for me Pick, and I chose you for the job. Are you up for it?"

"Me, Miss Marta?" he squeaked. "Where'm I going?" She pulled a handkerchief out of her pocket and began to wipe away the dirt smudges from the day before that were somehow still all over his face despite looking like he fell headfirst into the washtub.

She grinned and started unbuttoning and re-buttoning his shirt so that it didn't hang three button holes longer on the one side, "Yeah you. I need you to get a message to Racetrack in Manhattan. Can you do it? Do you remember which one's Racetrack?"

"Sure I do!" he answered, his chest puffing out with pride at being trusted with an errand. "What do I gotta say?"

Nips stepped up and joined their little huddle on the floor, sitting instead of kneeling to put his face in closer with theirs. He raked a hand through his sandy hair and said, "You just say that Brooklyn wants to talk with him. That way he won't question it." He looked to Marta for confirmation and she nodded. "Don't say nothing else, just where and when."

"Go right now, before Race can get too far from their circulation office," she said, straightening his cap and tightening the knots in his bootlaces. "You don't tell anyone but Racetrack and you don't say anything besides 'Brooklyn wants to talk on the bridge at noon.' You got it?"

"Yes, Ma'am!" he chirped proudly and started to skip away.

Nips leaned over to Marta, "You're sure we can trust him to get there? I mean, he can barely dress himself alone some days." She thought for a moment and stood up.

He knew before she said it that he wasn't going to like it. She looked apologetic and his lip curled up in distaste before she even started talking. "Trout, go with him please. Make sure he gets there and stays on task." He glowered at her, hurt that she would put him on babysitting duty when she knew how much he had already given for her in the past twenty four hours. He was going to be of no use to anyone asleep on his feet! She sighed, "You and Race are pals, Pickle needs to learn some responsibility, but this is too important to risk that he…well…gets in a pickle. Please, go." He sighed, nodded with a grumble and jogged off to catch up with the little boy.

Racetrack was selling at the boxing ring when Pickle and Trout found him. Marta was right, Pickle needed a babysitter. The kid was skipping all over the place and Trout had to pull him out of the path of two separate carriages and a trolley car. He'd never been so happy to see Manhattan as he was when Race spotted them and pulled the stump of a cigar from his lips, "Hiya boys!" he greeted jovially. He sauntered over to them, his green wool coat covering his loudly colored plaid waistcoat. He smirked at Trout, noticing how frustrated he seemed and then grinned at Pickle. "Hey Kid, Spot let you outta Brooklyn?" He spit in his palm and offered it to Pickle who looked like Race offered him a silver dollar. He was so used to being brushed off for being too little and too clumsy to do anything that Race greeting him like one of the guys made his day. "You ain't planning on causing no trouble while you's here, are ya?" Race asked as Pickle returned the shake.

Pickle flicked his eyes to Trout who shook his head. "I ain't causing trouble, I's delivering a message."

"Oh yeah, and what's Trout here for? A song and dance act?" Trout rolled his eyes and threw a lewd hand gesture at Race who chuckled and put his cigar back in his mouth. Pickle giggled at Race's joke and started to chase a piece of newsprint that was blowing down the street until he was hooked by his collar and brought back to stand with the older boys. Trout signed go on to remind Pickle what he was there for.

He squared his tiny shoulder and and put a comical attempt at a stony Spot-like face on. When he spoke he tried to put some bite in his squeaky voice, "Brooklyn wants to talk on the bridge at noon." He looked to Trout, who winked at him. The little boy's stomach gave a hearty growl and the two older ones laughed before digging in their pockets for a few pennies to give him and he trotted off to find himself some breakfast.

Race turned to Trout and clapped him on the back. "What's this about, Trout?" The taller boy cheekily pretended to lock his mouth with a key and held up his hands in innocence. "That's cute, Brooklyn, real cute," Race chuckled. "Youse really gonna make me wait?" Trout shrugged. "And I thought we was pals!" Trout grinned and spat in his palm, offering it to Race as a peace offering. Race returned it with a crooked grin. They were an odd set of friends, one rarely shutting up and the other never speaking, but they'd known each other since they were only a little older than Pickle, back when Race still lived at home with his mother and sister on Washington Avenue. It was only after Grazia Higgins took her own life that Racetrack left Brooklyn for Manhattan. Race did enough talking for the both of them, and managed to act as if Trout's gestures and expressions and written words were completely equal to talking and Trout liked how normal he felt around Race. "Come on, Trout! You's really gonna let me go into a meeting with Spot blind?" The quiet teen paused for a moment before he drew and x over his heart with his finger and shrugged his broad shoulders apologetically. "Sworn to secrecy, eh? Great. My favorite kind of dealing with his royal highness. You owe me one."

They watched, chuckling, as Pickle bought himself a roll from a bakery and then forgot to eat it while he chased pigeons down the road. "That kid has the attention span of a housefly," Race laughed and Trout nodded in agreement. He could feel Race's eyes on him, questioning him. He raised his thick, black eyebrows and looked pointedly back at the short statured seventeen year old. ". You look look like hammered horse shit, ain't you been sleeping? Or are the things I been hearing true? " Cocking his head to the side, Trout pushed his hands forward, telling Race to tell him more. If the rumor mill was already cranking away they might have more problems on their hands. "Everyone's hearing things about what's going on over there. I know you's sworn to secrecy, but can you at least tell me if the rumors is true?" Trout thought for a moment and shoved his hands forward again. "They's saying that Spot's disappeared, that someone else is wearing that stupid, piece of shit key that you all treat like a crown." He waited and watched his old friend for a reaction, but Trout managed to blank his face as he thought about how to answer.

Finally, he sighed and pointed to Race and then to his own eyes, you'll see. Race checked his watch. "I gotta get these sold," he said lifting his stack of papers from his side. "You two hanging around or heading to the bridge with me?" Trout checked his own watch and gestured for Race to hand over the papes. Race's face lit up, "Hey thanks, Trout!" Race handed them over and started to walk away, but Trout put a hand on his chest and glared at him accusingly. "Awright, awright, we'll split the take fifty-fifty. Geez, what do you think I am, a cheat?"

Trout nodded, grinning like a fool, and put two fingers to his lips to call Pickle back over with a shrill whistle while Race snickered. When the little boy arrived, Trout knelt in front of him, gathering all the patience he could muster. Pickle almost never understood him, because the kid couldn't pay attention long enough to watch, and couldn't read well enough to write a note to. He wished he was brave enough to just try to say what he wanted, but he couldn't bring himself to embarrass himself in front of Race with his stuttering and mumbling. He pointed to Pickle and walked his fingers and then pointed to Race, and then made a fist and pretended to kiss it. Pickle stared at him dumbfounded and he buried his face in his hands growling in frustration. "He said that you's walking with me to the bridge while he sells my papes," Race translated, rolling his eyes. "But I dunno what that last thing was with the kiss."

Pickle's eyes lit up and he grinned as he blurted out, "That's K…" He was abruptly cut off when Trout leapt up and tackled him, clapping one large hand over his mouth and the other on the back of his head. The larger boy scowled, locking eyes with him and staring him down until Pickle nodded. He had to hope that the kid would keep his trap shut.

"I don't like this secret business, Trout," Race said warily as he watched the two Brooklynites get up off the sidewalk. "Something don't feel right."

Trout pulled some paper out of his pocket and wrote: _you trust me, right?_

"Yeah, I trust you, but why can't you just tell me what's going on?"

 _Not my secret. I promised. Nothing bad's gonna happen. We just need help. Hear us out._

Race nodded and Trout let out a breath of relief. He checked his watch again and motioned that the other two needed to get moving before he grabbed Pickle by the collar again and pulled the kid's suspender strap up through his coat collar and handed it to Race. The little captive scowled, but Trout scribbled: _hold on to that, you'll thank me later._

Race chuckled again and gave Pickle's suspenders a snap like he was cracking the reins of a carriage horse. "Let's get a move on, Kid. We don't want to keep Brooklyn waiting." He looked Trout up and down one more time and shook his head, "When you's done, use my take to pay for a bed from Kloppman. Spot will kill me if anything happens to you on my turf."

Trout rolled his eyes and waved his hand around, his gesture for "Yeah, yeah, yeah," that he seemed to only use when talking about Spot.

On the bridge, just on the other side of the walkway from where Marta stood with Trout only the day before, Nips and Marta watched Race approach, holding a flailing, skipping, jumping Pickle by the rear strap of his suspenders. Nips chuckled and mumbled something about Trout teaching Race a valuable lesson about watching Pickle. But Marta couldn't laugh. Her stomach was tied in knots. Dealing with her own boys who had respect for her as the house manager, and who respected the key and Spot's wishes was one thing, but gaining the trust of another newsie was entirely different. He might see her as just some old broad trying to relive her glory days, and her heart lurched as she realized that she might be exactly that. "You do the talking," she murmured, "he knows you." Her hand clenched around the key so hard that the blade of it bit into her hand. She stood straight and tall, so nervous that her muscles wouldn't relax into the slouch she adopted as a teenager.

"No," Nips disagreed cooly, "it has to be you. The leader talks. If you let me do it then we look weak. Brooklyn is never weak." She nodded and let the key fall back on it's string while her pale lips drew into a thin line. The tails of her coat flew out behind her. Even thought the sun shone, the wind blew in cutting and cold off of the water. She was a strange sight in her fitted, ladies coat, it's navy blue wool trimmed with black piping skimming over her curves but men's grey windowpane paid trousers sticking out the bottom. Instead of a cabby hat, she wore a black velvet tam that slouched over her left eyebrow. Her hair lifted off her back and shoulders and blew about wildly, puffing and frizzing in the moist air coming off the river. Somehow, as their feet moved forward and the moment became less of an idea in her head and more of a reality, she was able to take a deep breath and when she let it out, her shoulders slouched and her hips began to sway with confidence.

They met in the middle of the bridge and Race's black eyes looked her up and down in confusion. He looked to Nips who jerked his head towards Marta, letting Race know who was running the show. Finally, his eyes fell to rest on the key and he swallowed loudly. "Ma'am?" he greeted timidly, taking his hat off and toying with it in his hands.

"Racetrack," she answered cooly and spat in her hand, holding it out to him. She felt the words start to pour out without her permission, "I'm running Brooklyn again." His eyes widened. "I need your help, Race; Spot needs your help."

He lit his cigar and studied her again for a moment before returning the spit shake. "No offense, Marta, Ma'am, but I'm getting really tired of you and your boys and all of this hocus-pocus, smoke and mirrors bull. Could someone please just tell me what the heck is going on?"

She smiled in a charming but rather terrifying way all of her fear and insecurity draining from her body. His wit and snark snapped something inside her and allowed her to embrace who she needed to be to make it through this. "How's this, Higgins? I'll give it to you straight if you can promise to not say 'ma'am' to me even one more time. The name's Kisser."

He gulped again as Nips tried to hide a snicker behind his hand. She reached out and whacked her second in the stomach with the back of her hand, eliciting a small oof from him. "Sure thing, Kisser," Race answered attempting to sound casual, but his hands, twisting and destroying his cap gave him away. She smiled again, as he got a fearful look on his face. Beads of sweat popped out on his brow and she knew that she still had it. As much as Spot made everyone nervous with his cold eyes and his impenetrable stare, she could be downright terrifying without ever dropping her smile.

She reached out and pulled Pickle towards her, smirking as Race jumped back like she might bite him. She gently moved the little boy over in front of Nips who took him by his suspenders. The rush of power that flooded her at Racetrack's fear was giddying. "What do you know about the Dockside Boys?"

"I heard some things," he answered, putting his cap back on and shoving his hands in his pockets non committaly.

"Things like they're a bunch of thugs who steal kids and force them to join their gang? Or things like they tried to beat your face in last summer at The World?" Nips asked, his voice bitter. She shot him a look telling him to stand down and he obeyed, ducking his tall head.

"They've been preying on Brooklyn Newsies for their recruiting for years, mostly the leaders. They give us a weeks warning, pick us off the street and give us the choice to join or fight our way to freedom." She was calm as she explained their situation.

"So why don't you run?" Race demanded, blowing into his cupped fists to warm his hands. "And what's all this got to do with me?"

"When we tried, they threatened to start taking the little boys, little ones like Pickle, until we came back. We weren't willing to risk that they were bluffing." she answered. Pickle stopped playing and looked up at them with big eyes, realizing the stakes at hand for the first time. "At least the leaders stand a chance of making it out. I don't even want to think of what Mick would do to the little ones."

"We ain't gonna stand for it no more," Nips spat. She found herself admiring the leader he was showing that he might be able to be. Standing in Spot's shadow, she never gave him much thought, but he was doing well.

"But they's already got Spot!" Race cried out in exasperation, his arms flinging out wildly and his thin lips grimacing over his crooked teeth. Marta explained to him what she knew about Dockside, explaining that they only had a few days left before Spot would be challenged, that it hadn't happened yet because he got hurt when they picked him up.

"So Spot's in trouble, and you two think you can save him?" Race asked.

"We have to try," she answered, gathering her hair into her hands and twisting it over her shoulder. "All we need from you is a few boys, maybe four, who you trust who can sell over by the Dockside hangout and bring back information for us. They know all my boy's faces."

"Why can't you do it, Sweetheart? Ain't like they's looking for a lady." He smirked, thinking he finally outsmarted her, but the look on her face wiped the triumph from his. Her eyes were distant looking at things they couldn't see.

"Because she's our leader, dumbass! Spot left her the key," Nips snarled also noticing the far away look in her eyes. She couldn't suck back into herself now. Poor Trout hadn't even slept yet, he couldn't let all of his friend's work be for nothing.

She put her hand on his chest and pushed Nips back a bit, her touch smoothing down his bristling anger. Her eyes focused again and she glared at Race with fiery intensity. "I'm still standing here even though I was a leader, telling you everything I know about their initiation rites. They know my face better than any of the boys, because I'm the only one still alive who made it out the other side. Me being there before the right moment is a death sentence for both Spot and me." Nips stared at her, wide eyed. She never spoke of that time to anyone. Her arms wrapped around her middle tightly and her shoulders shrugged protectively towards her ears. When she spoke again, her voice was quiet and sounded small and young. Her glare dropped to her boots and she suddenly seemed very tired. "We have to stop this Racetrack. Brooklyn and 'Hattan have always had each other's back in the end, for as long as I've been around. I'm not asking for fighters or big numbers. Nothing crazy. Just some boys with sharp eyes and ears and good heads on their shoulders. Will you help us?"

Race studied both Kisser and Nips, knowing from the tells on their faces that they were both dead serious. Spot showed up for them when they needed it and he wasn't about to punk out when the favor was called up to be returned. "I ain't sending any of my boys into something this serious blind. Its gotta be their choice."

She nodded, "Wise decision, Kid. You think on it, talk to your boys, but we need and answer by tonight so that we can get eyes on The Fox starting tomorrow. We know where they're keeping Spot and we're keeping an eye on him, but we need more information on their comings and goings and especially on Mick."

"I'll do my best to get you four," he answered. "They'll be at the bunkhouse by nightfall."

She reached into her pocket and pulled out a small coin purse. "Pay for Trout and make sure he stays in 'Hattan tonight and sleeps. He's been up for two days straight, I don't want him making the trip back today. The kid deserves a break." She handed Race a nickel to give to Mr. Kloppman for Trout's bed.

"You sure you want to get caught up in this?" His dark eyes shone with genuine concern.

"This is my fight and I'm finishing it, with or without your help. It will just be easier with."

He whistled long and low, "No wonder Spot's such a hard ass. I see where he gets it now."

"Scary, ain't it?" Nips asked. They spit shook on their plans and Race headed back to Manhattan to settle up with Trout, but the trio from Brooklyn stood their ground for a few moments as Kisser looked out over the water. "You think they'll show?" Nips asked.

"Yes," she answered resolutely. "He knows Spot needs him." A soft whimper distracted her. Pickle stood very close to her leg, trying to silence his own tears. She knelt down in front of him and pulled him close. "Easy, Pickle. Nips and I aren't going to let anything happen to you. You're going to be safe, because we aren't running." He nodded and Nips swung him around to ride piggy back for the walk back to the Brooklyn side of the bridge to wait. True to Racetrack's word, three Manhattan boys knocked at the Brooklyn lodging house door just before nightfall. Mush, Snipeshooter and Itey were all signed in and ushered into Marta's sitting room to explain their job while they were there. Mush assured her that Race would be splitting his time between the two boroughs. They needed eyes on the Fox at all time and someone to help Haystack keep an eye on Spot in the Brownstone. They were her eyes and ears on Dockside, the only thing keeping her and Spot from sacrificing themselves for nothing.


	14. Chapter 14

April 2, 1891

Trout ran through the streets after Spot, knowing that nothing good would come from following him, but that it would ultimately be better than what would happen if he let him go off on his own in the state he was in. It took blocks of running as fast as he could to catch and tackle his wiry friend to the ground, but he couldn't give up. Spot flailed and kicked at him and Trout let him, only blocking the wild hits. His face was already swollen from the hit he took in the bunk room earlier. "Get offa me!" Spot screamed as his fists flew, but Trout just pinned him down and sat patiently on his back where he couldn't do as much damage. "They's ditching us," he squeaked as all the fight drained out of him. "They's going away. She said we was holding them back."

Trout cocked his head to the side, that didn't sound right. He wasn't eavesdropping like Spot was...not until Spot went outside at least, but that didn't sound like Kisser or Scat to say that. It didn't really matter though, because that's what Spot thought and no one would be able to tell him otherwise. They would have to prove it to him. Trout couldn't tell him, that was for sure, but maybe he could make his friend feel better. It had been a long time since he'd opened his mouth, more than six months now, but he felt like he needed to, like maybe it would be ok. "I-I-I-I sssssss'ay he," he muttered, attempting 'I'm staying here.' Spot stiffened and stilled at the sound of his voice and Trout got up, ready to run.

"You's staying?" Spot asked, in a small and uncertain voice, looking up. Even at seven, he had the decency to look smug, like he always knew Trout could talk a little, instead of astonished or betrayed. Trout nodded, the corners of his mouth twitching upwards. "They won't tell me nothing, Trout. She used to tell me about everything, but not no more. Where they going?" Trout shifted from foot to foot, scratching at the back of his neck nervously and Spot's eyes narrowed. "You know something." It was useless to lie to Spot. For one thing he was no good at and and for another, lying was hard enough with words, without them it was nearly impossible. He wasn't supposed to tell Scat, but Kiss didn't say anything about telling Spot about the blind man.

With his rudimentary hand gestures, he swore Spot to secrecy, and the smaller boy drew an x over his heart and sealed it with a spit shake. It would have to do. After the long walk across the neighborhoods they stood together outside the apartment door and Trout knocked softly. The man could be heard shuffling around, knocking into things and grumbling to himself for a few minutes before he bellowed, "Who is it?" Trout shoved Spot forward, expecting him to answer, but Spot ignored him. He stared down the long hallway with a strange expression on his face, like something might jump out of the shadows at any moment, and kept stepping forward and back, like his feet were edging him back towards the stairs, but he wouldn't let them. With a roll of his eyes and an exasperated huff, Trout knocked again. The door flew open and Fox stood over them, swaying on his feet and stinking to high heaven of whiskey. Both boys wrinkled their noses at the stench and stepped away from the unstable man as he grasped the doorframe to hold himself upright.

Trout elbowed Spot and jerked his head towards the man. After a silent stare off, Spot sighed, "Yeah, uh, I'm Spot. He's Trout. He brought me here, thought you'd know something about what's wrong with Kisser."

"Trout...little newsboy come with Marta t'other day? The one that don't talk?" Fox slurred.

"Marta?" Spot balked as if her given name was a curse word, "You mean Kisser." Fox snorted and scrubbed his face knocking the cloth he wore tied over his eyes askew. The jagged x's carved over his eyes made both boys jump back so hard that they tripped over their own feet and fell on their backsides in the dim hallway. He quickly righted it, but neither boy made any move to get up off the floor. What they saw on his face was stuck in their brains and was used to scare younger newsboys for years after that, but at that moment just had them ready to bolt. "Kiss was here, too?" Spot asked quietly, dragging himself up off the floor.

"What is it you two want?" Trout pulled his notepad out and began scribbling as quickly as he could. The old man's ear turned towards the sound and a sloppy smirk tugged at his lip. "Well?" Fox he snapped, even thought he could hear the pencil scratching against the paper still.

"Hold ya horses, Old Man!" Spot sassed. "He's working on it!"

Fox smiled and settled his shoulder against the doorframe. "Mouthy little cuss just like her, ain'tcha. You must be the other brother she talked about." Trout's pencil stopped, his brain stopped. Kiss called them her brothers? He would never admit it, especially not to Spot, but he liked her thinking of him as family. He missed his family, even though they were going to give him away. Most days he couldn't blame them for wanting to be rid of him, but Kiss wanted him, wanted to protect him, even though he was just some kid she collected off the street. His family was supposed to take care of him, they got stuck with him and still couldn't do it. It felt nice, made his chest feel warm and full that someone wanted him even though she didn't have to.

Spot stood up with his chest out, "So what if I am?" His grating voice was enough to shake Trout from his stupor and finish his sentence. He shoved Spot back and handed him the pad of paper. "Trout wants to know if Kiss is leaving us."

Trout pushed him again. 'You want!' he signed, but Spot ignored him. Fox staggered back inside the apartment, waving over exaggeratedly for them to follow. He collapsed into a chair at the small table where he and Kiss sat when they were there the last time and poured himself a glass of whiskey draining it quickly. From the looks of things, nothing had been cleaned since they last left, and the drinking binge he was on had been going on since then too by the pile of empty bottles in the kitchen. The few belongings in the small space were strewn about like they were thrown. The bed was unmade, the sink was full of dirty dishes and the air smelled stale and musty.

Fox finished his drink and growled, "Get over here you two," through a raspy, alcohol burned throat. "What is happening to Marta don't concern you. Best thing you can do is just stay out of her way until it is all over."

"Me and Trout is tough!" Spot said gruffly. "We can take whatever they throws at us." Trout raised an eyebrow at his friend, not so sure. Sure they were tough against kids their own ages, and even a little older, just a few weeks ago the two of them had taken on a couple of eleven year olds and won, but grown men?

Fox frowned. "This ain't about brave or tough, Kid. This is about using your smarts." He reached for Spot's shoulder, but just as his hand brushed the fabric of Spot's shirt, he side stepped away, not liking being held down. "Skittish, eh?" He rubbed his hand over his jaw, rethinking what he might say. "Marta teach you about fighting smart or does she just let you idiots run at each other, fists flying, hoping to anyone listening that you hit something?"

Spot glowered at Trout, "Yeah, she told me something like that, 'cause Trout always sits his fat ass on top of me to win." Trout chuckled and gloated.

"So you know how to look for your opponents weaknesses and use them against him?" Spot grunted in affirmation. "If you go there, to the bar with the Fox on the sign, you will be her weakness. Mick will not hesitate to use you to bait her. He won't hesitate to hurt you just because you're kids. Don't be her weakness."

Spot swallowed loudly and Trout shoved his shoulder, pointing to his ear, begging Spot to listen. "But what if she needs help, or she's in trouble? What if she don't come back?"

Fox's face softened, "Boy, the only way that girl ain't going straight home to the two of you is if she's floating face down in the river when this is over. Everything she is putting herself through is for you, so don't go thanking her for that sacrifice by destroying her chances. Go back to your bunk house and wait." Spot's shoulder's slumped and he turned and left without another word. Once the door latched, Fox straightened up and held his arm out. "Where ya at, Kid?" Warily, Trout stepped under the outstretched hand and held his breath as it lowered gently on to his shoulder. Fox let it rest there for a moment and they sat in a strangely comfortable silence for a few moments. "You did right by bringing him here to keep him from going after her." He paused, sinking down in his seat and bringing his face level to Trout's, "But if you ever bring anyone to my house again without my permission you're going to have a few less fingers to write your letters with. Are we clear?"

Trout nodded furiously a few times before realizing the futility of it. Gingerly, he took Fox's big hand off of his shoulder and tucked his hand under it, the back of his hand to the palm of Fox's, and drew an x over his heart with his finger. Fox chuckled and patted his head clumsily, each pat feeling like it shook his brains loose a little. "Good boy." He fumbled around for the bottle again and took a long draw straight from it while Trout watched him silently. When the bottle was sitting on the table again, the boy turned Fox's hand over palm up to draw a y in the center of the man's callused palm with his finger. "Why what?" Fox growled. Trout stamped his foot and put Fox's hand on the bottle. He grunted and rubbed at his jaw, leaving his other hand palm up on the table. "You've seen my mementos of my time with those animals," he said, pointing at his face. "I can never forget what he did, but things get easier when I don't have to think about it all the time. You two came barging in here t'other day and brought it all back. I was trying to push it all back again, but it wasn't working very well." He smiled sadly. "A newsboy with no voice. How's that work anyway?" Trout put Fox's hand on his shoulder and shrugged, and the man's face broke into a handsome grin despite his scars. "Seems like you find a way, no matter what, don't you. Persistent. Tenacious. Both good things to be. Keep them traits, not enough men in this world with the gumption to stick to much of anything anymore." He snuffled and dragged his arm across his face. "You best be making your way back to see that your brother ain't doing anything stupid." Trout huffed and moved away from the man. He opened the door as Fox poured himself another glass of whiskey. "And Trout?" The boy stopped in the open door and waited. "Get me word when she makes it back, no matter what shape she's in." Trout swallowed back the sick feeling in his stomach. He meant even if she was dead. It was the first time it felt real. Kiss and Scat could die doing what they were doing.

"Uh huh," he murmured and let the door close behind him. He kicked his way back to Brooklyn Heights feeling heavy and exhausted and couldn't make himself go back to the Lodging House. He was exhausted, but too worried to try to sleep, so he went to the bridge and sat down just about at the halfway point to watch the boats move along the dreary brown river. He tried not to look at the slip of land up near Queens or Queens itself, neither one of them held good memories for him and right then he wasn't sure if the life he made for himself was much better than the one he would have had there. He curled up in a ball with his back against the sidewalks and hugged his knees to his chest. He already lost one mother, one set of siblings, he wasn't sure he could do it again. If he got back to the lodging house and they were gone, he decided then and there that he was going home. Maybe they wouldn't be mad anymore. Maybe now that Marta taught him some words to write they would let him stay. If Marta and Scat were gone, he'd take Spot and go back to Queens. If they wouldn't take them...he'd figure that out later.

Late that night, he woke to a yelp in the quiet bunk room. Instead of the soft sound of Kisser's singing, there were only the soft snores, heavy breathing and occasional mumble from his bunkmates. He moved slowly, so no one would notice him, and rolled over to see Spot sitting up in bed. Tears slid down his fearful face as he searched the dark room for something. Where was Kisser? Why wasn't she singing? Spot scrambled from the blankets in a panic and rushed over to her bunk. She wasn't there, but Scatter was, still fully dressed and sitting on her bed with his head in his hands. "Scat," Spot asked quietly, so as not to wake anyone else, "Where's Kisser?" Trout climbed down as silently as he could and followed close behind.

Scatter startled up from his reverie and peered at the little boy in front of him through swollen, tired eyes. His dark hair that normally curled and waved in an unruly way was limp and greasy from him pressing it back so often. Spot looked just as ragged, with his sweat dampened long johns, pale face and wide eyes. "I dunno, Kid. She didn't come home, I ain't seen her since the circulation bell rang." He scrubbed his face with the heels of his hands and let out a deep sigh before looking at the fidgeting kid in front of him, who looked near to tears. "You ok? Did you have another nightmare?" Spot nodded and shuffled his feet against the floorboards. Kisser was always there, singing her low lullaby to let him know that those things, those people that chased him through long corridors in his dreams couldn't hurt him anymore. He tried to wipe the moisture away so that Scatter wouldn't know what a baby he was, but Scat saw anyway. Instead of teasing him or telling him to buck up, a big hand wrapped around his skinny little arm and pulled him gently down onto her bunk. "I'm worried too, Kid, and I can't sleep without her here, neither." He threw his arm around Spot's shoulder and gave a gentle squeeze. They both noticed him, standing further back in the shadows, watching the tentative show of affection cautiously and Scat beckoned him over with a jerk of his chin.

As Trout sat down on Scat's other side, Spot sniffled. "She makes the bad people go away," he whispered so softly that Scatter had to lean in to understand him.

"Yeah," he answered back, his voice a soft, gentle rumble, "I get that." He stood and then knelt down in front of the kids. "Listen, I ain't gonna sing to you like she does or nothing, but you sleep here in her bed for tonight. I'll be right up top if you wake up again. In the morning, we'll skip selling and go look for her, ok? You two an' me?" Spot nodded and put his head on her pillow, sucking in the soapy smell of her, the perfumed smell of the stuff she put in her hair after she washed it to tame the wild mane down so she could braid it. It was the one girlish thing she did, and it made her smell all the more perfect to them. Trout stood up to go back to their bunk, but Spot pulled him back, yanking the blanket out from the foot of the bed and pointing at it. Scat chuckled and pulled his pillow down to give to Trout and they all tried to sleep for a few more hours.

The next morning, the three set out from the Lodging house ready to scour all of Brooklyn for her, but they didn't even make it a whole city block. The streets were still on the quiet side, and she was there, meandering up Poplar street with her braid undone, staggering like a drunk, wrapped in a tattered blanket like a bum. They ran to her, Scatter pushing her warm brown hair out of her face and Spot grabbing onto his spot on her pocket that he held onto since her hands were usually full of papers. Trout hung back, afraid to touch her, afraid that she would break and be gone for good. Her head lolled on her shoulder a bit as Scatter pushed her hair away from her face too roughly in his excitement to see her. She was heavily bruised and a trickle of dried blood fell from the corner of her mouth and both of her nostrils. Angry, purple handprints wrapped around her slender neck and even from a few feet away, he could hear her breath rasping in and out of her swollen throat. "Marta?" Scatter called as she laid her head against his chest. Her battered hand, split and swollen from giving back all the fight she was got, grabbed onto Spot's and squeezed. "Kiss? Talk to me!" Trout stared at her black and blue knuckles, the marks of blocking hits went all the way up her forearms.

"I'm ok, now Scat. We're all ok. I took care of it and we're all ok," she mumbled as she seemed to fall asleep in his arms. "We're gonna be ok." Her blanket fell as Scatter scooped her off of her feet and Trout gagged. Her clothes were torn to ribbons and bloody, there was almost nothing left of her skirt. Her shirt was unbuttoned, the only thing untouched, but under it, the soft, freckled skin of her chest was covered in marks, gashes and deep, magenta welts. He swallowed back the bile in his throat and picked up the blanket, following along after. Something about the look on Scatter's face told him that nothing was fine. Nothing at all. Instead of following them into the house, he folded the blanket as best he could, leaving it on the desk and rushed back to Bedford-Stuyvesant to let Fox know that she made it back alive.


	15. Chapter 15

**October 26, 1901**

It was the god damned fried eggs that let him know his day was destined to be shit. He woke up from a nightmare, the nightmare, his head still aching in an annoyingly dull way, just painful enough to always be vying for more of his attention than he was willing to give it. With the rich smell in the air, he couldn't tell if he was really awake or if he was still trapped in the dream. He liked living at the Lodging House, it never smelled like things that made him unsure of where he was when he woke up. The old memories made bile rise in his throat and pulled him out of bed. He staggered to the washstand just in time to empty his stomach into the porcelain bowl.

The skivvies that Darcy dug up for him the night Scat dragged him in were all he wore and the string at the waist was tied precariously loose around his hips. He wasn't even sure how long ago that night with Scat in the dark, dirty room was. His arms shook, bracing him on the washstand as he let his head dip low to try to breathe the nausea back under control. Every breath just brought more of that smell into his body. "Better watch your ass, Sweet Cheeks," Darcy teased from the doorway. He didn't move to yank his shorts higher on his hips, he didn't care that she could see his rear. She'd seen everything else so what did it matter? "When you's done tossing your cookies, I made you and I breakfast while I was making Mick's. We get eggs here everyday! Ain't it fancy?"

"Get that shit outta here," he choked as he felt a second round of heaving pressing it's way up. She scurried out with the plate and he managed to choke back his gagging long enough to open the window. Outside it was grey and cold. The cold wind cut through the thick air in the room and he swiped at his running eyes and nose, pulling the sharp air into his lungs. It stopped the shake in his muscles long enough to reach up and push a damp string of hair off his face. The chill on his skin comforted him, the prickling of gooseflesh reassured him. Cold was who it said it was, icy and scathing, no more and no less, and he needed something plain and truthful in his world.

He'd begun to shiver when she returned picked up the washbasin, carrying it down the hall to the washroom to dispose of it. She handled it without so much as a crinkle of her nose. "Never seen no one puke from the smell of eggs before," she said, almost timidly, when she came back. She paused and he could hear the wicked, teasing smile in her voice, "Well, my mother when she was pregnant, but no one else. You ain't knocked up, are you Conlon? 'Cause that would sure put a wrench in Mick's plans for you."

He snorted sardonically and fought the smile that was threatening to stretch across his face. He didn't want to like her or her company, she was Mick's, but her stinging sense of humor was something he could appreciate. "No such luck," he spat, but refused to give her any information or any further encouragement beyond that, telling himself that she was just his keeper until Mick decided to try to kill him. He didn't owe her a damn thing.

She stepped up behind him, placing one of her tiny hands on his shoulder and the other under his other arm. "Come on, you'll catch your death standing here in the cold with no clothes on. Not to mention, that you're probably shocking the neighbors into a tizzy." She tried to guide him back to the bed, but he violently pulled away from her touch.

He stumbled away from the window and back to the bed, snapping, "What? The neighbors don't know they live across from a whorehouse?" He collapsed onto the soft mattress and saw the tray she left with toast, coffee and water on the nightstand. She shivered in the cold air and the wake of his scathing commentary for a moment before stalking over to slam the window shut.

"He keeps the whores at the Fox," she said quietly, the words methodical and well practiced. "I'm different. I'm his." The strange mix of scorn and pride in her low whisper raised his sandy brow. "This is his house and I live here and take care of things. He makes sure I got food and clothes so long as I cook and clean and look after the boys when they need patching up." .

"And bed them when they ask," he sneered. Her face paled and she turned away from him. "I reckon whether youse taking gold and silver or food and shelter in return for those kind of services it still makes you a whore." He watched her for a moment and felt a tiny sliver of shame in his gut. Marta would have punched him for saying something so awful. He got away with a lot, being her favorite, but he knew she wouldn't let something that awful slide regardless of never having given him more than a cuff on the head before. "Don't touch me again, no one touches me" he mumbled, even though she deserved an apology. She wouldn't get one because he hated apologizing almost as much as he hated fried eggs and tenement hallways.

But Darcy Reynolds wasn't one to take things lightly. Her watery, green eyes lit up with anger as she threw the water from the glass she brought up in his face. "You arrogant, son-of-a-bitch, piece of trash!" she shrieked. "Who are you to judge me? You ain't no better!"

He raised an eyebrow and smirked, "Ain't I?" He looked her up and down. "Flouncing around in your drawers night and day, how long's it been since you was outside this hell hole, eh? Even a two bit saloon girl goes out now and then. And me?" His smirk grew wider, and his eyes glowed threateningly and he raised his arms wide and regal. "When I ain't busy being kidnapped by your boss, I'm free as a god damned bird! So, yeah, I am better than you, because I'd rather die than be under the thumb of an asshole like Mickelson. Go get my clothes, I ain't gonna sit around in me skivvies all day just 'cause you do."

The flash and flare of her anger mellowed to a low simmer and allowed a small, cruel smile to curl her mouth. "Sorry, Toots, no can do." His hands fell back to the mattress and he sunk back into the pillows as he glared at her, really seeing her for the first time. Her hair was brushed and curled, her cheeks and lips were pinked with rouge and her eyes were lined with coal. Her black stockings were mended and her chemise seemed whiter and less marred than it was the last time he noticed.

"You got time to wash your own clothes and paint your face, but you ain't got time for mine?"

Her small smile grew to a mean spirited grin. "Oh, I had plenty of time, and I did wash them. Washed them, dried them, mended and ironed them. "

"So give 'em back!" he snapped, annoyed by her games.

"Like I said, no can do." She stood up and strutted seductively to the washstand where she grabbed a towel which she threw over his face to wipe up the remnants of his water. "I'll give em back when Mick tells me to and not a second sooner. The quicker you learn your place around here, the better."

"You think I don't know my place in all of this?" he asked, pulling the cloth from his face and throwing it down. "You think I don't know this ain't normal treatment for a new guy?" he snapped. "Warm bed, clean sheets, hot food. You think I don't know that this ain't how the boys around here live all the time? I ain't stupid. I know my place. My place is at 61 Poplar St with my boys and Kisser. This little play house youse got set up here is nice and all but I know that the moment I say 'yes' its back to bunkbeds and day old bread. Which is why I ain't saying 'yes,' because I got those things for a nickel a night and no strings attached back home. There, I ain't gotta beat up the kid who takes my place in a few years to get em."

The door downstairs closed loudly and her eyes grew wide and fearful. "Stay in this room, do not come out. Whatever you hear is not your business." She scurried out, closing the door behind her. He looked at the coffee and toast beside him and wanted to throw both out the window, but his yammering stomach begged for food. He broke the slice in half and then in half again. He stared at the quarter left in his hand as if it might bite him back, but tentatively brought it to his mouth. It was gone too quickly, but he wouldn't let himself eat the rest. The coffee was lukewarm, but sweetened with sugar and cream and took the edge off his hunger. He wondered how long it had been since the day he left the Lodging House with Trout and Nips.

Down the hall a door slammed and then he heard Darcy, whimpering, pleading and crying, but he couldn't make out the words. He pulled himself back up and out of the bed, finding that each time he got up the stiffness and wave of unsteady dizziness got less and less. He wrapped the dingy quilt off the bed around his shoulders. He hadn't gone this long without getting dressed since he was still in diapers and he didn't like it. With his ear pressed to the door, he still couldn't make out what her frightened voice was saying, but her heard her cry out as her body was slammed back against her own door and his body jolted backwards as if he too was hit. He backed away, his eyes never leaving the door. His hands, his knees and even his lungs shook. This was too much, too familiar. He didn't stop backing up until his back hit the window, where he perched on the window ledge and turned his face to press against the icy glass.

The sounds coming from down the hall didn't slow, didn't calm. They went on and on and two hours passed since Darcy left. Her distress only pausing for a few moments at a time. Moaning, crashing, groaning, screaming and the bed frame banging against the wall and he was desperate to block it all out. His stomach turned and tied in knots and every time his eyes closed he saw the dark corridor from his dreams. Darcy's screams began echoes of screams he'd heard before, screams he'd hidden and run away to keep from hearing anymore, because he couldn't stop them. He couldn't fix her and and he couldn't save her. For a moment he wanted to suck into himself and sing one of Marta's songs until they stopped, but he was a man now, he couldn't keep running. He opened his eyes and saw a kid with a shock of straight, flax blonde hair on his head looking up at him from the street below. "Stack!" he yelped, under his breath. Bird or not, the kid was not supposed to know where he was. But the possibility lit a fire under him. His boys were coming for him, they were with him. He couldn't stop being Spot Conlon just because he was a bit spooked.

He hitched the borrowed drawers up around his narrow hips before storming out into the hallway and banging on the door that Darcy was crying behind. It didn't matter that he didn't really like Darcy, that he found her vapid and annoying. He wouldn't stand for a woman being harmed that way. Not that way. Not ever again. A trembling Darcy opened the door just a crack and wiped the tears from her face. "Spot, go back to your room and rest. I told you not to come out!" she hissed urgently, peeking behind her. She clutched her velvet robe, it's gauzy folds the only thing hiding her nudity. Her lips were swollen and newly formed bruises were blooming from the milky paleness of her skin.

"Like anyone could rest with the two of you carrying on like you are!" he scoffed. "I ain't gonna sit on my ass while you get the crap kicked out of you." He reached in and grabbed her arm as gently as he could while still forcefully pulling her out the door. He traded places with her and barged into the room.

The man on the bed glared back at him through hazel eyes that seemed too light for his deeply tanned skin. His black hair was winged with silver at the temples. "Spot Conlon, we meet at last," he said, sounding none too pleased to be meeting Spot on terms that weren't his own. "You've interrupted a meeting, now get out. I'll be with you in a moment. Darcy, get back in here."

"She ain't coming back in this room till you ain't in it anymore," Spot challenged.

"My house, Kid," Mick answered, standing up, unashamed by his own nudity. It was a show of dominance, to walk over and tower above the steely eyed boy. "My rules. As a guest in my house, you will follow my rules."

"A guest?" Spot barked in incredulous laughter. "I'm a guest? If guests get their brains bashed in and their clothes stolen and housekeepers get attacked for hours on end while they yell 'no,' I'd hate to see how enemies get by!"

"Housekeeper?" Mick chuckled, shooting an amused look at Darcy, who cowered under his eye and tried to cover herself. "Ask your….what is she, because claiming she's just your house manager is about as truthful as Darcy's claims that she's my housekeeper." He shot the girl a venomous look and she cringed. "She's not your leader anymore. So what is Kisser? Your friend? Your sister?" Spot's face began to burn and Mick snickered as he bristled. "You ask Kisser how we treat enemies, if you see her again. You'll know soon enough, first hand, how my enemies are treated if you remain intent on refusing my offer."

"You leave her outta this! I'd gladly be your enemy if it meant getting the hell out of here and away from you," Spot hissed, seething at Mick's mention of Kisser, at the thought of him hurting her.

Mick chuckled and turned his back to start getting dressed. His mannerisms were casual, as if he had conversations this heated everyday while having a morning romp. "Don't you know anything boy? Even if you get out of here, there is no away from me. I own Brooklyn. While you sit at your docks and call yourself a king, I have the money and the manpower to back the claim." He buttoned his trousers and turned back, taking large strides to cross the room.

Spot refused to stand down as Mick advanced on him. The older man got close, too close for Spot's liking, but he stood his ground. "Pity, what Niko did to your pretty face, you would have been a favorite among the dancing girls at the Fox" Mick crooned again, "but I suspect more damage will be done to it sooner rather than later." Without warning, he reached out and grabbed the back of Spot's neck hard, digging his fingers deep into the muscle. Spot hissed as the pain in his head grew stronger. "You learn some respect while you are here. You're not the king while you're in my castle." With that, he threw the boy to the ground hard. Spot's face hit the floor and his vision blurred. His stomach lurched as his already injured head tried to recover from the hit.

"Mick!" Darcy yelped and ran to Spot's side. "You'll kill him!"

"He's tougher than you're giving him credit for, Darling," Spot cringed at the terrible name and pulled his arm away from Darcy's hand, but much more gently than he did earlier in the day when she tried to touch him. He looked at her steadily and gave her a slight nod and she smiled an nearly imperceptible smile in return. Mick was buttoning his shirt and saw the small exchange, his eyes flashing with jealousy and triumph that Spot didn't understand. "You'll need all the gall, piss and vinegar you can gather to make it out of here. When I am done with you you will be a twisted shadow of the person you are now, win or lose. Don't let yourself get distracted, you're here for a reason. When your gauntlet is over, one of three things will happen: you'll be dead, you'll be next in line to run Dockside or you'll be alone, a fragile shell of what was once Spot Conlon. Impress me and you'll get your chance to thrive."

"Nothing interests me less than impressing the likes of you," Spot sneered, spitting on the floor at Mick's feet. Mick just chuckled as he stepped over him, delivering a swift kick to the ribs with his trailing foot, and strode out the door.

Darcy stood first, still clutching her wrap around her naked body, and then pulled him to his feet. "You just stood up to the leader of the Dockside Boys in your underwear and didn't bat an eyelash," she said in monotone, while he tried to stop the room from swaying so violently.

"He shouldn't be hurting you," he growled, catching hold of her shoulder to save himself from falling and wrapped the other arm around his bruised rib cage , "and its his own fault I didn't have me clothes." She grabbed his hand and looked hard into his eyes, waiting for permission to help him. He sighed and nodded and she wrapped his lanky arm over her narrow shoulders to help him back to bed. With his head once again throbbing and his world off kilter, he slipped back into the warmth of the bed and slept.

When he woke again it was night. She sat on a dining chair that she drug in from elsewhere in the house and lit a cigarette. He watched the long tendril of smoke rise from the tip of her cigarette and curl towards the ceiling. He wanted one, the craving clutching at his ribs and making his hands twist the sheets in his fists, but he refused to ask her for anything. She'd proven that too much had been taken from her already. She was dressed for the first time in a long time, judging by the creases in her navy blue skirt and white blouse. She sat, curled like a cat with her legs tucked underneath her and a clumsily knit purple shawl pulled tightly around her body. Her silky blonde hair was tied back with a simple ribbon, showing exactly how fine it was and her face was scrubbed clean and pink, making the bruises Mick left on her look darker. Her eyes were empty, like her soul had vacated her body and the only time she moved was to raise the smoking roll of tobacco to her lips as she stared out the window. "God damn you, Spot Conlon," she murmured, without ever looking his way.

"What the hell did I do?" he croaked, pushing himself up against the pillows and then cradling his head as vertigo rocked through him.

"I spent years pushing the disgust at myself back to the back of my mind. I tell myself that he loves me, that it's better than sleeping on the streets or dying in a factory. I push all of the bad thoughts down as far as they can go just so I can live with myself for another day. Everyone else who comes in is just trying to do the same thing, so no one ever points it out to me." She spoke to her own reflection in the window, absently feeling the bruises and bites that marred her flesh. "I make do thinking of how fancy I feel getting to eat eggs every morning when they're eating watery porridge at home and I roll around in my feather bed and remind myself constantly of the folded blanket on the floor I slept on with with three sisters. I do everything I can to only see the good part of where I am so I can make it through another day. And then some jackass kid on a high horse with a big mouth comes in and points out all the shit that I was trying not to think about and suddenly all I can do is think about it, think about what I've done to myself. And I can't help but hate the person I see in the mirror, all because some punk kid has a death wish and doesn't care who he takes down with him."


	16. Chapter 16

April 4, 1891

Kiss slept all day and late into the night, waking periodically with her heart pounding and the sick taste of panic in the back of her throat, only to see that she was safe in the lodging house's sick room. She gulped in air, through her painfully swollen throat, relishing the oxygen in her lungs that wasn't there in her nightmares. She dreamed over and over again of Mick holding her down, touching her, forcing himself on her, over and over again she broke the bottle over his head, but she never made it out of the tavern. He caught her every time and dragged her back to choke her again. When she woke, it was the feeling of her soul leaving her body from lack of air that woke her. Sometimes Noakes was with her, putting a cool cloth over her forehead and soothing her with kind words, calling her "Girlie," in an endearingly grandfatherly way and sometimes it was Mrs. McNulty from the Working girl's boarding house around the corner. She wasn't normally kind, but she tended her injuries gently and looked at her with pity. She and Mrs. McNulty had an ongoing love/hate relationship leftover from the nights that Kiss actually lived where she was supposed to. She still signed in there every night, but her place was with her boys where she made sense. She wanted Scat wrapped around her back, cocooning her with his warmth and his smell, but he was the only one who wasn't around. It was the middle of the night when she woke with a start and heard a whimpering. Spot was asleep with his head resting on his tucked up knees and his back against the wall next to the sick room door. But he wasn't the one making the noise.

Trout was under her bed and she rolled onto her stomach to drop her hand down. She didn't want to embarrass him or call him out; she figured he woke up alone and came looking for Spot. It took a long while, but soon enough she heard the gentle hiss of his skin slipping across the floorboards. His soft little hand slipped into hers and she let out a relieved sigh. It wasn't Scat, and it wasn't being held, but at least it was the touch of another person. She needed it desperately to keep her grounded and she felt like maybe he needed it too.

The next time she opened her eyes, Scat's body filled the doorway with his back to her. As he turned the corner, she could see Spot's limp form tucked in his arms. He came back a moment later and their eyes met for a moment before he turned his down and knelt next to the bed and pulled Trout out. "Please, leave him," she whispered. "He needs the sleep...and I need not to be alone."

He glared at her silently, and her breath caught in her throat. She'd seen that look in his eyes before, but only right before he started soaking someone. Getting Scat Painten angry wasn't easy, he was a lighthearted guy. "We got shit to talk about and they don't need to hear it. You ain't gonna be alone." His words were stiff and controlled, like his jaw wouldn't open all the way to let them out. He returned a minute later and closed the door quietly behind him, keeping his back to her and she painfully pushed herself up to sitting on the edge of the bed. "What did you do, Kiss?" he asked quietly. She was glad he stayed turned around, since she got back, people looking at her felt oppressive. Their gazes put weight on her that made it hard to breathe, hard to move. She turned her eyes to the floor and watched his feet shuffle around, feeling the air get heavier around her as he stared and waited for what would normally be a quick and witty answer. "You's covered in hickey's from head to toe." His voice cracked and he took a few shuffling steps towards her, but the harsh gasp that her lungs pulled in stopped him. "Tell me that someone attacked you, please. Tell me that you didn't go in there and do what I think you did."

Her heart dropped and she pulled her knees to her chest. "Since when do you like me lying to you?" she whispered. "I went there, I went there and I cleaned up this mess. Dockside ain't gonna bother us anymore. No more threats, no more challenges. Its over."

He let out a harsh breath and shifted his feet. The heat of the anger rolling off of him was uncomfortable and made her think of the basement. Her stomach rolled at that. "Yeah, its over. That's for sure," he spat, and left the room with a slam of the door. His boots pounded down the stairs as groans and gripes rose out of the bunk room. She waited in the sick room until they fell back asleep before slipping across the hall to gather some clean clothes. Her bunk was made messily, but that wasn't what distracted her. The brass key laying on her pillow was. He'd gone in looking to talk to her, knowing what she would say. He'd already made up his mind before he even started putting Spot and Trout back to bed. Tears pricked her eyes and she clutched her shirt and pants to her chest, grabbing the key before anyone else could see it, and ran to the washroom.

After a quick wash, Kisser stared at her reflection in the worn and spotted mirror and sighed at the person who glared back at her. Her skin was a gentle tan from three years of daily sun and wind, but still she looked pale, haggard and puffy from lack of sleep. She was littered with bruises, gashes and scrapes. He was right, every inch of her chest and neck were pocked with hickeys and the sight of them made her queasy, she could still feel the hot, unwanted lips and teeth on her skin and she nearly gagged into the sink. In the course of less than a week she had changed, she looked older, her eyes had hardened and wised up. She could no longer be the carefree girl whose only adversary was those who might drag her back to the school. As of that morning, all of Brooklyn was officially her adversary. She braided her hair down her back and tied it with a bit of twine. Twine from the same skein now held the key that hung around her neck. Though the brass was cold, it felt like it burned her skin. She wanted to throw it at his skull. She wanted to shoot the damn thing from her slingshot and hope it went in his eye.

She was still bruised and hurting in more ways than one from her encounter with the Dockside Boys. Her mind raced with all of the memories of the past few nights and all of the worries of those to come. While tall for a girl, she was still so small in comparison to the big burly boys that slept in the next room, boys who she knew would not take kindly to being ordered around by a girl. It would hurt their pride too much, and the hurt pride of teenage boys was what got her into this mess, what made Scatter condemn her to be the key holder in the first place. He knew what would happen, and he gave her the key out of spite.

That was another fine mess her desperation to hold on to Scatter and the feelings he gave her got her into. From the night she ran, he was her whole life. She may have been brave enough to leave, to sneak out all those times, to defy the Reverend Mother and take the consequences with nothing but a smirk, but Scat made sure she learned to survive once she was out. She was always told she was so independent, so fierce, but the truth was that she was naive about most things. The confined life of the Convent School left her lacking in street smarts, and Scatter not only protected her, but taught her to take care of herself and then he taught her how to live, how to laugh without someone else hurting, how to play and not feel guilty, how to dance without caring that there was no music and how to love. She loved him with reckless abandon. She loved him desperately. Desperately enough to try to save him, but now that it was too late, she could see that he never wanted to be saved. He might not have wanted the gang life, but he wanted the chance to prove himself. The chance to be found worthy of something for the first time in his life. No one but Mick was willing to give him that. He was already theirs from the day Mick's men roughed him up, she could see that now. She didn't understand it, but she could see it. He didn't fight they way she did because, unlike unlike her, he'd never been held under the thumb of another person, forced to submit. He'd never been owned by another human being like she had. He didn't know that the approval of a person like Mick came at a horrible cost.

Kisser swiped her wet hand over her reflection angrily, blurring the face that she couldn't stand to look at for another second. She needed out, she needed to hit something or break something. Noakes was old and grey and much more stooped than anyone should be while still working for wages and the boys were up late with booze and cards and dice. The old man wouldn't bother with cleaning up the mess until after the boys were up and out of the lodging house, so she gathered bunches of bottles into an old flour sack and hauled them down to the docks with her pockets full of marbles stolen from the stashes of some of the smaller boys. It was late spring and the days were starting to get truly warm, but in the early morning, the chill off the water made her skin tingle as she set up her targets. "Whatcha doing'?" a small, surly voice called out.

"You go blind since last night?" she asked, her voice monotone and disinterested.

"No." He scowled but never lowered his eyes from her face.

"Shame. Mighta upped our circulation if it was a little blind kid following me around instead of a little mean kid. Don't ask me stupid questions, I ain't in the mood." His normally blank face went white as he watched her set up a shot with wide, hurt, blue eyes. He was only seven after all and was used to Kisser taking care of him in a teasing but loving way. She'd never said anything so uncaring and cruel to him before. She was too distracted to make the shot and the marble plunked into the river without hitting anything. "Damn," she grumbled, and dropped her eyes to him, expecting him to tease her for the poor shot. Her heart sank at the sadness on his pointed face. "Oh, hey, Spot, don't listen to me today." She knelt next to him and reached out to touch is arm, but he pulled away as if her fingertips might burn his skin through his shirt. "Shit," she whispered, mostly to herself, and dropped from her knees to her butt on the docks. "I can't do anything right by you guys lately."

He glanced over at her and furrowed his brow, taking in what she said, before he sat down beside her. He left a good bit of distance between them, enough that she couldn't touch him again and watched her out of the corner of his grey eye for a bit before he asked, "You's pissed about Scat leaving?"

She shrugged as she lined up another shot. "Sad, mad, lots of feelings, none of them very nice." She let the marble fly and was rewarded with the shatter of glass. It wasn't the greatest shot, she only took the neck off the bottle. "Which is why I said that, not because I meant it. I don't wish you were blind and I don't think you're mean."

"I am mean," he quipped proudly. "Trout thinks so."

"Oh yeah, Trout tell you that?" Another shot and the rest of the bottle shattered. Her muscles were starting to loosen up and her heartbeat wasn't so heavy and dull in her ears.

He glared at her witheringly, "Course not, Trout don't talk. I just get him and he doesn't get mad when I'm an asshole."

Her fourth marble flew high into the sky as his casual use of "asshole" jolted her out of her concentration. She stared at him in shock for a second before a loud, uproarious laugh barreled out of her. Under normal circumstances, she would have scolded him for it, but it felt too good to laugh. He shot her a funny little lopsided grin, proud to have pulled her out of her bad mood, if only for a moment and thankful that he wasn't getting cuffed behind the ear like he would be normally if he cursed around her. She laughed until her eyes were watering and her stomach hurt. "Oh, I needed that, thanks, Spot," she sighed as she wiped her eyes on the sleeve of her pink shirt. She lined up a few more shots and took out a few more bottles. "Did the bell ring yet?"

"Nah, not for a few more minutes," he answered. "Noakes hadn't even gone upstairs yet when I left. You ready to go?"

"I'm not selling today, but you head on over and find Trout. I've got an errand to run."

He dropped his eyes. for a moment. When he looked back, he was giving her one of his long steady looks. "Trout's in one of his hiding spots and he don't wanna come out. I keep telling him to quit being a baby, but he's pretending he can't hear me." He looked up at her again, looking so much older than his seven years. She wished she had hiding spots she could go and sit in and tend to the deep cuts on her heart, but instead she let another marble fly, grumbling at the deep plunk as it landed in the murky water.

She hissed out a few choice curses under her breath that made his think cheeks flush. She could talk dirty than most of the older boys when she wanted to. "Sometimes people need to just be allowed to be sad, Spot. I know you and Scat never buddied up, so you don't get it, but Trout is different than you. He liked Scat a lot. Leave him alone for a day or two. Let him have his hiding time."

His eyes bored into her like glass shards and her heart clutched as she realized that she always thought Scat's eyes were like apothecary glass, green and earthy. Spots were clear blue and stinging as they cut her. "You can't hide, Kiss. You can't let em know you's scared." She gripped the key at her breast through her shirt and took a shuddering breath.

"You gonna protect me when they come after it and try to take what he left for me?" she asked, in a pathetic attempt at humor.

He snorted, "No one protects you, Kiss. You don't need no one to protect you. You can't hide, if they knows you's scared then they will take it."

She hung her head, knowing that things were really looking bad if the seven year old was able to give her an effective pep talk. "Go get your papes, kiddo." She dug a nickel out of her pocket and held it out for him, "Sell a few for Trout, you two gotta eat and pay for your beds tonight."

"So do you."

She smiled at him, "Don't you worry about me, I can sell the evening edition and make up some of my losses. I'm not in the mood to sell just now. There's somewhere I got to go."

"You want me to come?"

"No," she answered swatting the brim of his cap, playfully. "You keep an eye on everyone else while I'm gone, let me know if I have anyone in particular to worry about. I'll watch my own back." With that she pulled the remaining marbles from her pockets and held them out to him, trusting him to stealthily redistribute them and headed off around the navy yards towards Williamsburg. It was a long walk, she could have picked up some papers and sold as she made her way from Poplar St to Montrose Avenue, but she just felt like being alone and shutting the world out that day. She walked with her hands in her pockets, avoiding contact with other people.

For the first time in three years she entered the dim, cold and eerily quiet sanctuary. She stood in the back with her arms wrapped tightly around her middle as if her guts might fall out if she let go. She couldn't make herself move, she had no clue why she felt so compelled come in the first place. She sighed, she knew exactly why she needed to come, she just didn't like it. Parishioners were confessing, heading into the little room, and returning a few minutes later to kneel in the pews and say the rosary to complete their penance. For a moment she thought maybe that was what she needed, to be absolved of her sins, to be forgiven for smothering the life out of her love for Scat and for accidentally berating a small child, but the thought of entering that small dark box and telling an adult that she couldn't see all of her misdeeds made her stomach lurch threateningly. So she stood, stock still like a statue dripping with discomfort. "Either the apocalypse is upon us or the second coming…because I can't imagine anything less earth shattering would bring Marta Gatcyk back to church."

Kisser turned and studied the young woman who stood in the doorway. She was a novice, a sister in training. Her dress was simple and black, her blonde hair only partially covered by a simple black veil. Her face was sweet and heart shaped and her mouth quirked teasingly. Marta grinned and ran to her, "Oh, Constance," she sighed. "Oh, hot damn, am I happy to see you."

Constance laughed and shook her head, "Cursing at a nun inside a church. I don't know why I'm shocked, but I am."

"Sorry," Marta mumbled, "I never was good at all the rules, and being out with the boys for so long, I forgot most of them."

"What are you doing here?" Constance asked, dragging her friend into a back hallway where they could talk without disturbing the praying parishioners. "I honestly never thought I'd see you again after you ran."

"I always find my way back here when I've done something wrong." She shoved her hands in her pockets and shrugged her shoulders up towards her ears, uncomfortable with the secret being out. "None of the boys know, but I always come when I feel guilty. I end up here, waiting for her to come barreling out of her office with a switch or a paddle, waiting to be dragged to the seclusion room to wait. I don't even know what to do with myself when I feel bad, so I come here." She smiled at Constance sheepishly, "Normally I'm too afraid to come through the door, and I just stand outside the gates and memorize the stained glass."

"What's different today?"

"Today, I deserve to be dragged back in." She answered quietly. "Nothing makes sense and I don't know what will happen. At least here, I know I will be miserable and I know exactly why. Out there, its just confusing."

Constance looked at Marta skeptically and put her hand to the darker girl's forehead. "Are you sick? The Marta I know would never back down from a challenge!"

"The Marta you knew didn't have to go to fisticuffs with any boy who thinks he has what it takes to run Brooklyn. They will all see right through me and they will all try to take it, and I can't take on all of them! I'll fight if I have to, but I don't want to! I didn't ask for this."

The blonde girl grinned, "You never asked for it here either! You are a leader, Marta, whether you like it or not, you just have something in you that makes people believe in you and what you do."

"I'm brash and obnoxious!" Kisser interrupted. "I take things too personal and act before I think! I always had someone else with me before! Here I had you! Someone who smoothed over and took care of all the things I couldn't be bothered with. With the boys, that was Scat, but he's gone now and he ain't coming back! The only people who I know have my back are seven! I can't have a couple of seven year olds as my seconds, besides a girl leading Brooklyn, thats the dumbest thing I ever heard! I can't do this, Constance."

Constance gripped her friends shoulders and gave her a quick shake, rattling her out of her hysterical rant. "Since when do you care what other people think of you? And since when do you need anyone else? You are NOT that girl Marta. You don't need Scat. You don't need me. You are the leader, now get out of this church before all of the statues start bleeding and get back to your boys. You are not giving up everything you worked for because some boy broke your heart. You're better than that. There will be other boys, there will never be another you."

Kisser smirked, "Apparently I do need you to shake me out of my own head from time to time."

"You know where to find me next time you need a kick in the. . .pants. Now, please, get out!" The blonde blushed as her irreverent friend nearly caused her to curse. Marta always was a bad influence on her well behaved friend.

"Some best friend you are, kicking me out! What happened to your vows of kindness and charity?" Marta stuck her tongue out as she began to saunter out, trying to build herself up to the point where she could believe Constance's words.

"You kicked yourself out, stupid. Now go! You can come here to try to solve your problems, but you can't hide from them."

Kisser stopped and turned, "I'll be back to see you this time. I promise. Tell Mother Abbess I said hi." With a wink she ran back to Poplar Street Lodging House and sat imperiously on the front steps waiting for the boys to return, waiting for the challenges to arrive. She pulled the key out of her shirt for the first time that day, proudly displaying it as they filed in past her. Some gawked, some scowled, but most nodded at her, a silent approval and acceptance of her position. They knew her now, she wasn't just Scat's girl. She was their leader in her own right and there would be no challenges. Kisser Gatcyk was running Brooklyn.

 _A/N: I saw the Fathom events recording of Newsies last night and I swear my face still hurts because I smiled for three hours straight. Ugh, so good! Also, I'm going to New York in the fall! I'm planning and all out newsies geek out and I'm hoping Joker is coming with me so that we can geek out together! I only wish the show was still on Broadway! Oh well, maybe I'll go see Wicked instead since I'm pretty sure I'm the only theater nerd alive who hasn't seen Wicked. Anywho, in honor of the movie showings and the original being on Hulu right now, here's a chapter! Next one is an original, wasn't in A &G. I'm pretty excited to share it._


	17. Chapter 17

October 30, 1901

She made herself go to confession at Most Holy Trinity, she walked across half of Brooklyn, swallowed her pride and fear and made herself go inside the building and even got into the tiny confessional booth. An imaginary speck of dust on her blue wool skirt kept her attention while she waited for the sliding door over the screened confessional window to snap open. The words were still innate, a reflex, even after to many years. "Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It's been...years, so very many years since my last confession." The warmth of incense and the damp cold of the stone walls wrestled in her nose, turning her already nervous stomach. She bowed her head, "I've been proud, too proud to admit that I might need someone besides myself. I don't trust anyone to help me out of this." Between admitting that she was lacking in some way and the smell and the small space, her skin was crawling. It was a bad idea to go into the church. She should have just gone around the corner and rang the bell at the convent to see Constance instead of letting her dirty, guilty conscience lead her into the sanctuary.

"You must always trust in God, my child," the priest said quietly. "Trusting in Him when the times are at their hardest is what faith is."

She sneered, wishing she could see, no, wishing she could punch, the man who could brush off her fears as a lack of faith. "I have faith, Father. I just don't want to put it in an invisible man in the sky who sees fit to let a mother come to this building just to abandon her baby, or lets more than one fully grown man hold down and torture a helpless little boy, or who gives big, beautiful thoughts and feelings to another boy, but no way to express them. What kind of 'Father' would want that for his children? Why would any father not stop someone who was hunting down his children just to hurt them for his own amusement. He doesn't get my faith because he hasn't earned it! I want to know why! I want to know what I ever did to him to make him do this shit to me over and over."

"God always has a plan," he answered. "He has a plan for you, and He wouldn't put anything into play that you couldn't rise to handle."

"That's bull!" she yelled, banging her fist against the wall of the confessional. "No one should have to handle this! Once was bad enough; twice is just cruel! What did I do to him? What did I ever do to anyone to deserve this?"

"No one can know what God has planned for us, my child. It is not our place to know what lies in store for us." She snorted sardonically and heard him sigh. "Why bother with confession if you have no interest in faith or absolution?"

"I'm done for. I might not have any faith in the big guy's reasoning or ability to help me, but that don't mean I'm stupid enough to chance going out dirty. If I'm wrong and he's been sitting up there watching me, I'm making sure I meet him at my best with a nice, shiny clean soul. Heaven or earth, I cover my ass."

The bible in the other side of the booth hit the cold stone floor with a loud bang and the priest coughed as if he tried to breathe when he should have swallowed. "That's not how it works," he sputtered.

"Yes it is," she snapped in a perfect, albeit unintentional, impersonation of Spot. "I confess, you absolve, I go light a candle and rattle off a few Hail Mary's and everything is forgiven. That's what they beat into me in your school." She stood and threw her shoulders back, feeling like she might burst if she didn't get out of that tiny, stuffy space. "If God is who you say He is, then I don't need you. He knows how sorry I am for dragging those boys into this, for not preparing them as well as I should have, hell, for keeping them close enough to me to let them get hurt just by association. He knows, so why should I give a rat's ass if you do?" With that she stomped back out, taking deep breaths of cold, early November air. Spot had been gone for nine days. For seven of those nine days, he hadn't been seen except briefly staring out of an upstairs window, which was good enough for Marta and Trout, because if he was looking out the window, he was alive.

The dead grass of the cemetery bristled and broke as she walked through. She didn't know why she turned off of the street and into the gates, but she was glad she did. The din of the city didn't seem to be able to penetrate the low brick walls around the quiet space. It was the kind of pervasive quiet that worked its way into a person's bone marrow, shushing the doubt and anxiety in her mind, the never ending pulse of nervous energy rushing through her veins. She relished the break from it. She turned her eyes upward, staring at the gloomy grey sky. Gone were the beautiful fall days with the picturesque light and ethereal foliage, now they were into the cold, short days that threatened snow. She might have walked for miles like that, eyes on the sky, head in the clouds, safe from the turmoil of her own thoughts if she hadn't tripped and sprawled in the grass.

The boy who helped her to her feet after she tripped over his legs was about the same age as Spot and Trout with black hair and tanned skin, but the eyes that stared back at her were a strange light blue that didn't match the rest of him. She stared at them in awe until he looked down with a flush crawling up his neck. "I'm so sorry to disturb you," she sputtered. "I wasn't looking where I was going."

"Its all right," he answered with a bit of gentility to his voice that spoke of breeding and grace, things she'd only really heard in passing while selling papers or from Trout's little friend, JoAnna, before she disappeared from their lives. It was something soft and smooth that had to be both bred in and taught. That sound could easily get scratched, but was always there, easily polished again. "I should be moving on anyway. He wouldn't approve of the lollygagging and talking to someone who can't hear me." He gestured at the simple stone he'd been sitting by and Marta's breath caught in her throat.

Fox Mulligan

Friend and Teacher

"Fox!" She yelped and looked back up at the sky with a confused smile, "Still watching out, huh, Old Man?" A wry grin spread over her face and she sniffled and laughed at the same time, "Bet its a lot easier from up there...and ya know, with your eyes back."

The boy cocked an eyebrow at her, backing away a few steps. "You knew him?" he asked warily, looking like he was fighting his instincts to stay near her.

She nodded and stepped forward to put her hand on the cold granite. "Not well, but he helped me out of a tough spot once upon a time." She stared at him, smiling softly. "What was he, your father?"

"Closest thing I had," he answered gruffly, stuffing his hands in his pockets. His hesitance to show his affection for Fox was so endearing to her that she stepped closer to him. She missed Spot.

"I know you don't know me from Alice Roosevelt..."

"Sure I do," he snapped, cutting her off with a smug smirk on his face, "Alice Roosevelt has her picture in the papers every other day for doing some nutty thing or another and you're just some crazy broad who thinks she can talk to stiffs."

She scoffed, but had to bite her cheeks to keep from grinning, the scornful banter was just what her aching heart needed. Her wit rose up to greet his challenge, "Button ya lip, wiseass, or I'll show you just how deep my crazy runs!" He stepped back again and she grinned. "My name's Marta."

"Carlos," he mumbled. "I gotta get going." He turned and started to leave, but she needed more. More cocky, teenage, son of a bitch to lift her spirits, more of whatever dregs of Fox lived on in that boy. She needed it more than her lungs needed air, so she followed him. "What are you doing?" he asked after a few blocks.

"Walking," she answered calmly, keeping a smile to herself. Block after block, he did everything he knew how to do to try to lose her, but she kept right behind him. "I never got to see him in action, but ol' Fox sure taught you a thing or two, huh?"

He scowled, "I've got work to do. D'ya mind?"

She quickened her steps trying to keep up with his long strides. "Yeah, well, you spend half your life surrounded by rotten, cocky-ass street boys, you learn to have a bit more patience than the average, garden-variety crazy broad." She smiled at him and watched his lip quiver as he fought against returning it. "I will say, though, newsboys got nothing on you when it comes to moving through the streets. I've only had one who moves like you."

Awe, recognition, respect, something that stopped him in his tracks and drew his eyelids wide open passed across his boyishly handsome face. "You're the girl. The one who beat Mick at his sick, little leader game." The mere mention of Mick brought a sour taste to her mouth and she grimaced against it, turning away from Carlos. "Come on," he said, starting to walk again. "I'm buying you a drink." Happy to finally not be rejected, she followed along, chattering happily. He never responded, except to grunt or snort.

She rolled her eyes at one such noise as he pulled open the door to a quiet tavern just off of Washington Avenue. "If you said any less, I'd think I was walking with Trout," she grumbled, looking warily in the door. She normally wouldn't admit it, but The Fox was the only tavern she'd ever been in and the few drinks she'd shared with Fox were the only times she'd tasted alcohol beyond beer. She was the only girl in a house full of boys and trust only went so far, so she never drank around them, even if they were drinking. Then she was their leader and their stupidity was suddenly her problem. Once she was grown and working at the Lodging House, the Children's Aide Society people could show at any time they felt like it and most of them were followers of the temperance movement and didn't approve of alcohol unless it was medicinal. She'd cowed to their beliefs without a second thought and the more she thought about that the madder she got. That wasn't Marta Gatcyk, that was the ghost of a person Mick made her into. She took a deep breath and looked around the room. Despite the empty tables and the peaceful atmosphere, she couldn't make herself step in.

Carlos pushed past her saying, "You miss things if you're busy talking all the time." He sat down and waved at the elderly barkeep, pointing to a shelf behind the bar that held an empty bottle, a pocket watch and a prayer candle decorated with a picture of Mary on it. The boys's dark eyebrows furrowed when he realized he was sitting alone. "You followed me all the way here, now you don't want to sit with me?" A second glance at her nervous face and the way her eyes darted around the room, waiting for goons to come pouring out of somewhere softened his glare and he stood up. "This is Moriarty's, not The Fox. Nothings going to happen to you here." He took her hand and gave a gentle pull. "Always took him a minute to get his bearings in here and remember where he was too."

Her lungs agreed to the deep shaking breath she took in as she took her first willing steps towards the table he picked and she smiled sadly at the shelf, "That's what he always drank. He always made me pour so that one of us had a chance at being sober when we were done." A small chuckle came out of her as the bartender set the glasses down in front of them. "I never told him that I hate the stuff and that he was drinking alone."

"Trust me," Carlos said, wrinkling his nose, his brow furrowing with something more than just the burn of the alcohol, "he knew. Old bastard always seemed to know everything." He knocked back his glass and closed his eyes. "I do one in his honor, but that's all I can take." Marta tipped her glass to her mouth, intending to sip, but he tapped the bottom, dumping the whole glass into her mouth. She sputtered and coughed with whiskey rolling down her chin and onto her shirt. "Taking it slow only makes it worse. Once you singe your throat a bit, it doesn't hurt so bad." He switched to tequila while she kept ordering Fox's whiskey. Two more drinks later her lips were numb and the dingy room was shifting side to side in a rather disconcerting way whenever she moved . Jethro, the barkeep, set another drink in front of her and Carlos slipped him a note. She watched the old man go to the door and hail in a young boy, handing him the sheet of paper and sending him off.

"Washington Ave is Trout's turf," she slurred, digging her fist into her eye like a toddler who needed a nap. Her muddled brain couldn't figure out any other reason for a boy so small to even exist unless he was selling papers, "He ain't gonna like that kid being here."

Carlos chuckled and she suddenly noticed that he switched to coffee at some point. "That kid isn't a newsie, he's a neighborhood kid who I trust to take messages. Don't worry about him, drink that and then I'm cutting you off." She stared down into the glass full of amber liquid and her eyes burned. She was long past the point of being sober enough for the vapor to affect her, the tears burning and stinging in her heavy lidded eyes were real ones. They fell hot, thick and heavy, racing their way down her cheeks and splashing on the dull table top between her splayed hands. She wasn't sure why she was crying, but a soft hiccup of a sob escaped her lips and Carlos looked at her in horror, "Oh Jesus," he muttered, scrubbing his face. "Come on, let's get you upstairs."

He snaked his arm around her waist gingerly and she toddled on legs that felt like they were filled with jelly up to the small apartment over the bar. It wasn't till her backside hit a lumpy armchair that the floodgates opened and she really started to sob. "I needed Fox to be here, but Mick took him away too! I needed him to get me through it! He's the only one who understood what its like there and what that man does to people!" she yelled. Her words were muddled and slurred and not all the way understandable thanks to the alcohol fueled emotion forcing them from her body. She sobbed loudly, wrapping her long arms over the top of her head and sobbing into her knees. When the worst of the poison had worked its way out she sniffled, but didn't raise her head as she said, "I don't want to go back. He's going to kill me this time."

She heard him rustling around, building a fire not far from her feet, but this time it was ok that he didn't answer, because her words weren't for him anyway. They were just feelings, things that she would never let herself think, let alone voice without the help of the whiskey. She pushed herself up until her back rested against the cushion of the armchair and sighed heavily, staring into the small smoking fire he managed to start in the fireplace as he snuck downstairs on those silent feet that Fox helped him train, startling with a squeal when he was suddenly back in front of her holding a mug full of steaming black coffee. "Calmase," he soothed in a tongue she didn't understand, wrapping her hands around the hot pottery. "Eli will be here to get you soon." He smiled a bit bitterly. "If there is one thing I know about Eli Cooper, it's that he won't let any harm come to the people he cares for."

She stared up at him in confusion, "You called him Eli. Trout doesn't let anyone call him that except JoAnna."

"But you still knew who I meant," he answered cyptically, shaking his glossy black hair out of his eyes. "Sit back and relax, drink your coffee, Marta. I'm going to wait for him downstairs." He paused and looked back at her from the top of the stairs, "Its suicide, you know? Going back in there. You're scared and sad for a reason, your brain knows you shouldn't go."

"I know," she croaked, taking a sip from the mug and grimacing at the bitter heat of it. "I don't know how I lived last time, I don't remember getting back to the Lodging House. I don't understand why he let me live when I went back the day before they took Spot. I don't know why I'm still here, most of the time I wish I wasn't."

He scoffed, but a worried look wavered in his blue eyes, "You don't mean that. That's the whiskey talking."

She shook her head, giggling humorlessly and tried to make herself take another sip, but her unfocused eyes kept listing back to the dancing flames in the hearth. "I wish I didn't mean it. I don't want to mean it, because I want to stay and protect them, but he killed the best parts of me that night. I don't think I can do it again without all of me." He didn't say anything but didn't leave like he said he was going to either. Her head was getting heavy and lolled to the side, cradled by the wing back of the chair. "You know Trout's name, about Dockside, about Fox and Mick...are you real? Or are you and angel?" Her voice was slurring with exhaustion and alcohol and her eyelids were getting heavier by the moment. She fell asleep to his mirthless laughter at her question as he peeled the mug out of her lax hands.

A soft pat to her cheek and the low rumble of a little used voice attempting to stammer out her name pulled her out of the quicksand of drunken unconsciousness. "Mmmmmmm...mmmmmmah...mmmmmmmmah-ah," he hummed, trying to force it out of himself. "K-k-k-kit...kits-er." She smiled softly and he patted her cheek a few more times, trying to get her to open her eyes.

"You talking to other people now?" Carlos asked incredulously from somewhere else in the room. "And here I thought I was special!" She opened her eyes as Trout rolled his vibrant ones and shot Carlos one of his dirtier gestures, making the dark kid laugh.

He smiled at her, kneeling on the floor in front of her, worry lowering his eyebrows even though he tried not to show it. "Did everyone know but me?" she croaked, forcing herself to sit up straighter and swallowing back a sour taste that lingered in the back of her throat.

He shook his head, his brow relaxing it's deep furrows. "No," he mumbled. "J-j-j-j-just Sssssssss...sssssspot 'n' 'Los."

"And JoAnna," Carlos interjected earning him a scowl and another lewd gesture. "Geez, sorry."

Before Marta could ask how he knew anything about JoAnna...or Trout for that matter, Trout was hoisting her to her feet. "We...g-go hhhhhhhhome," he muttered, letting her get her legs underneath her. She let him help her down the stairs and into the tavern, but pushed away and weaved her own way to the door and out into the cold evening air. Trout followed, holding her coat and watching from a few steps behind as she toddled along.

"Be careful with her, Amigo," she heard Carlos warn as she made her way over to the side of a building, pressing her hot skin against the cold bricks. Her stomach was starting to roll and the cold stone against her cheek was doing nothing to cool the pervasive heat her body was throwing off. "She wants to be tough, but she's broken. She doesn't want to be here. At least till she sobers up, keep an eye on her." Hearing him repeat the melancholy feelings that she'd almost forgotten, the knot in her gut tightened and she ducked around the corner to empty her stomach in the alley. Rough, but gentle hands pulled her hair back away from her face and an arm wrapped around her middle to hold her up. Carlos was still talking, once she stopped retching and the low whine receded from her ears she could hear him again. "Watch your back, Eli. I don't have many friends, don't let me lose another to Mick." She felt his acknowledgement as he let her hair fall back around her face.

She sniffled, hanging limp, his arm the only thing holding her up, and began to cry again quietly. "I'm never drinking again," she whimpered. "It hurts too much." Trout pushed her up until she was leaning against the wall and pressed his back into her front to lift her up piggy back for the long walk home. She sobbed softly in his ear, quickly forgetting all about Carlos and Moriarty's, as she felt the muscles in his neck tighten and the vibrations in his throat as he tried to keep the pain her sadness brought him to himself. His shoulder was the perfect place to rest her head and she held on tight as he walked. Her sobs died down to hiccups and whimpers and he began to whistle the lullaby that she used to sing them in the night when they were small. She hummed along, sniffling still and kept herself awake by listening to his beautiful melodic whistle. "I trust you, you know," she said quietly. "You and Spot. That's it."

After a moment, his hand reached up and patted hers, pressing in for just a moment as he said, "Not 'lllllllone, K-k-k-kits. I ssssss'ay."

"Good," she sighed. "I can't do it alone again."


	18. Chapter 18

November 1, 1901

Scat walked into the Fox with a sigh. The guys that were the closest thing he had to friends sat over to the side side, as far away from the dancers as possible at what the rest of Dockside called 'the kid's table." Chapman and Schmitz were younger than him by six or seven years. He trained up the younger ones, collected the fresh meat and then let them pass on up the ranks before he could get too attached to them. He told himself he stopped missing real friends after a few years, once he learned that they were more trouble than they were worth because when their bodies were dragged from the river it didn't feel like it killed a bit of him because they weren't friends. They were just guys that he shared a bunkhouse and a few drinks with. He nodded his head at them as a greeting and ordered a beer from a pettiskirt and corset clad dancing girl with a tray. Bonnie Brennan watched him as she took his order, her soft blue eyes trying not to meet his. The dishwater blonde was the latest casualty of his inability to let himself be happy. This time, though, it wasn't his fault. If it was up to him, he would follow her upstairs to her sparse room above The Fox everyday from now until kingdom come, but he was blacklisted. Mick cut off all of his privileges after he got caught meeting Marta at the church. Two weeks later, he still wasn't off the hook. Bonnie wasn't Marta, not by a long shot, but she was kind and sweet and she liked to take care of him. When their eyes met, he gave her a tight lipped smile, but she turned away and ran for the bar. He clenched his fist under the table, bristling at the fact that Mick got to her too.

He knew so many boys from other boroughs who fell in with other gangs who said that life as a newsboy lent itself easily to life in a gang. The brotherhood, the close knit comradery , those were the things he looked forward to still having coming in. What he didn't understand then was that he wasn't joining up with Barker's in the Bronx or The Bowery Boys. This was Dockside and Donovan Mickelson didn't lead a brotherhood. He led a wolf pack. They all worked together, followed orders, but any wolf could be singled out, whether by the leader or by another member of the pack and destroyed. Scat was tired of everyone looking at him like a piece of meat. He wanted things he couldn't have with Dockside. Seeing Spot with his face swollen and bruised, his eyebrow split open from hitting a wall too hard and his jaw scraped up made something boil up inside of him. He tried to push those feelings away.

He couldn't save Spot, any help he tried to give would only make Mick come down on the kid harder and would be a death sentence for Scat himself. As he drank his beer, he couldn't help but wonder if it would be worth it. Would he feel better about his waste of a life if it ended to save Spot's for Marta? The answer was undoubtedly yes, but if his death wouldn't save the kid then both his life and his death would be a waste and Marta would never forgive him for that.

Schmitz snickered as he pointed across the room. "Boss kicked the shit outta Niko because of what he did to that kid."

Scat followed his gaze across the room to where Niko sat with both his eyes blacked, his nose swollen, sitting awkwardly to try to keep from disturbing cracked ribs and anger flared up in his belly. "Serves the fucker right," he growled into his glass as he took a drink. "The kid barely knew his own name when I took him from the basement to the house. Niko almost killed him."

"Everyone knows who that kid is, Ted. Your girl..." Schmitz voice was soft hoping to save himself from a belting. Everyone warned him not to breathe a word about the girl to Painten unless he wanted a close up view of Ted's meaty fist.

"I ain't had a girl for more than a night in ten years," he grumbled, his heart aching at the truth of that statement even as he watched Bonnie move around the bar. Much as he might be able to be happy with her, she was Mick's property. His life really was shit. He ordered and drank another beer, and then switched to whiskey. Then he ordered another. And another. After the fourth, he staggered the few blocks to the brownstone and banged on the door. The cold wind didn't cut through the hot haze of booze that surrounded him and did nothing to cool the urgency boiling in his gut.

Darcy answered the door wearing actual clothes instead of that ugly old robe she loved so much. She even had her hair pinned up, but her eyes were shadowed and tired and the bruises that never quite got the chance to heal before Mick added a new layer stuck out starkly against her creamy skin. Her brow furrowed and she groaned as she asked, "What are you doing here, Ted? Mick ain't here."

"I know," he slurred. "I wanna talk to Spot."

She shut the door a bit, "You can't be here unless you's on official business, Ted, you know that. Go back to the bunkhouse and sleep it off."

He shoved his body against the door, flinging her to the side. "I ain't here to see you, so ain't neither of us gonna get in no trouble."

She caught herself before she fell and grabbed his arm, "You know the rules and you know why he made them!"

But he pushed her off and continued trying to get to the stairs, "And its a stupid rule! Just like all the others!" he bellowed. "He can pass you around like a community drinking cup when it suits him, but he catches me trying to get you to stop crying and I'm banned from being around you? You was thirteen years old! What was I supposed to do? Just leave you here alone like he did? He wants new guys or to scare the crap outta us, so he steals a kid off the street to torture? It's wrong Darcy! You know it's wrong, and I might not be able to stop it, but I can at least talk to the kid before he has to go through it!"

Her eyes were wide and fearful as she listened to him rant. "Ted, I'm begging you, you's drunk. Go sleep it off somewheres. Don't do nothing stupid."

"I'm at my best when I's doing something stupid," he said, stopping in his tracks and smiling dopily. "That's what she always said." Marta called him stupid because Marta loved him in her own weird way. She never let a single ounce of his idiocy pass her by without notice. "I'm going to see the kid. I owe it to her."

"No, you are not," she hissed, ignoring his nonsense, "because if you get caught upstairs it ain't just you thats gonna catch hell for it. Me and him will get the shit kicked outta us too, and I ain't sure he can take another hit right now. He was doing just fine the other day until Mick threw him down and now it's like all the fight is drained out of him. He's hurt. Back off at least until he can handle the consequences."

Scat laughed heartily, scaring Darcy enough to make her take a step away from him. He was so much bigger than her and so even tempered normally. "That kid has more fight in him than any one person should be allowed. It ain't gone, it just goes quiet sometimes."

"Darcy," Spot's quiet voice said from the stairs. He leaned heavily against the wall, looking more tired than Darcy. His eyes glowed from his face eerily in contrast to the dark circles underneath them. His face was a mess, covered in bruises of varying depth and color, his eyebrow stitched together and the scab from where his face collided with the bricks beginning to flake. Darcy had relented in her ban on his clothing and gave him a long john shirt, but still, he had only linen shorts and an undershirt on. It was strange to see, Spot Conlon looking so vulnerable.

It was a kick in the gut. "Shit, kid. You look terrible." He could have helped Kiss stop this, but he ran instead.

Spot stared into Scat's flushed face, searching, but for what Scat was too drunk to know. "Yeah, well, your little friends keep coming over to play," he murmured, nodding at Darcy to let her know that it was all right. Scat felt a smile stretch his face as he watched them. They were the same age he and Marta were when things ended...when he ended things between them. Spot looked so world weary and, like Darcy said earlier, like all the fight drained out of him. "This place got a back door?"

She nodded, "In the kitchen."

"Mick ever use it?" She shook her head, looking like a bird trapped in a house. Her normally dull green eyes were frantic and bright and her hands shook and fluttered.

"Good. You keep an eye out the front. If he comes, I'll shove dipshit here out the back. It'll be ok." He took her hand in his and gave it a quick squeeze. She nodded stiffly, leaving Scat to wonder what magic Spot held over the women in his life. Marta fell in love with him instantaneously, though with Marta that was just how she was. It was like people had marquis lights above their heads that only she could see that labeled them good or bad from the moment she met them. Darcy was rarely civil, seldom subdued, and didn't really like anyone. To see her compliant and very nearly companionable with another human being made Scat wonder if he'd had more to drink than he remembered. Spot led the way to the kitchen, never taking his hand off the wall as he walked. He unbolted the kitchen door and turned to Scat, leaning against the doorframe. "What's so important?" he demanded, but it didn't hold nearly the power it would have a week before.

"There's things you need to know, you need to understand before you go into this. Things about me, and about Kiss. She never wanted either of us involved in this."

"I remember." Scat flopped down into a wooden chair, cradling his head in his hands while Spot talked. "She was so wrapped up in you that she didn't know where you ended and she began."

"D'you know that she came here and tried to bargain for me like a racehorse? That she told them that I was useless without her?"

"You are useless without her," he snapped, annoyed and exhausted. He didn't want to be standing there and Scat didn't blame him. He looked like me needed a hospital not some glorified baby harlot who taught herself to be the gang doctor, but thoughts like that, where he wanted to save people, always just ended up getting him into more trouble. Spot looked up at him, a glimmer of curiosity sparking in his light eyes. "Why'd you leave her the key?"

Scat wasn't prepared, he crossed his arms over his chest, broadened his shoulders and set his jaw. "Because its what she wanted."

"Bullshit," he barked, then gripped his aching head with one hand and the doorknob with the other as his balance faltered. "She never wanted anything but you."

"She knew what was going on. She chose her own pride over me," Scat growled. "She wanted to show me up and put me in my place! She wanted to lead, so I gave it to her and let her see what it was really like. I figured she would get fed up with it and step down after a few weeks. She made me look like an idiot!"

"You are an idiot. She knew that already and liked you anyway. She made it two years and was just as good alone as you two was together, but scarier, 'cause you wasn't there grinning like the village idiot. The reputation that she built served Brooklyn well. But she still didn't want it; she wanted you."

Scat paused, tipping his chair back on two legs, trying to balance it there. "What did she tell you happened?"

Spot sighed, and rubbed his forehead, wincing as he got too near the split in his eyebrow that Darcy had stitched back together. "Nothing. She never told me a damn thing. I knew where you went, I just didn't know you came willingly until now."

Darcy cleared her throat in the doorway. She had a mug of coffee that he abandoned when he followed her downstairs in her hand. "Thought you might want to finish that."

"Get back out there and watch the damn door!" he snapped, snatching the mug from her hand. He stopped and blushed for a split second before he blanked his face again. "But, ya know, thanks," he mumbled.

She smiled and Scat snickered as he again tried to balance the chair on it's back legs. She walked past and kicked the chair, sending him to the floor with a loud crash before retreating to the parlor, giggling to herself. Scat pulled himself and the chair slowly off the floor with a groan. "Careful there. She's private property of Donovan Mickelson, and he don't share too well unless he feels like it."

The kid blushed as Ted turned the chair around backwards and straddled the seat, resting his head on the backs of his hands at the top of the high wooden chair back. "She's been nice to me and I. . .I'm trying not to be so. . ."

"You?"

He smiled, an honest-to-God smile. "Yeah, not so 'me' to her. She deserves better than that." He rested his forehead in his palm, turning pale and breathing deeply like he might throw up. "She didn't want to show you up. She wanted you to not have to go at all. I been around her every day for almost my whole life. I know her, Scat. I know everything there is to know about that crazy, scary, fucked up broad!

"She tell you why that spot at the church was ours?" Spot nodded, curling his hand more tightly around the mug. "There's a loose brick on the outside of the fence, in the base that the iron is seated in, and we used to leave each other stuff there. I kept doing it after I left, and it's all still there. Can you tell her? She needs to know that I tried to talk to her."

Spot looked away, "You know as well as me the I might not make it back there."

"If anyone can do it, you can, Kid. You was pretty impressive at The World strike, swinging down from the rooftops and all."

The compliment and any questions Spot had were silenced as a knock on the front door froze them in place. "Get going," Spot whispered.

"You be careful, kid. Tell Kiss about the brick if you get back to Poplar."

Spot spat in his palm and held it out, "You do it if I don't." Scat quickly returned the spit shake, flashing a fleeting Jack-o-lantern grin before running out into the alley. Spot casually grabbed his mug before putting his hand back on the wall and tottering back to check on Darcy.

Niko stood in the front hall glaring back at Spot who set the mug down on a secretarial that was open. He was only a few years older than Scat, but dark, swarthy and squat. Seeing him put into perspective the feeling Spot had that he got hit by a train because compared to Spot's lean, lanky frame, Niko was built like a train. He took in the sight of Niko's new injuries and smirked, knowing those blows were dealt in punishment for what happened to him. "You get your ass right on outta here, Niko Komopolis!" Darcy snapped as Spot stepped forward placing a hand on her elbow from behind. Their eyes met and hers widened with comprehension. Scat needed more time.

"So, you's the one I get to thank for this mess," he gritted, gesturing at his face as he sneered at the man and sized him up. "You look like hammered horse shit. What did you do? Chase a parked carriage?"

Niko grimaced, "Boss didn't appreciate the way I brung you in," he muttered. Then he snorted, "Like you look so much better, Princess."

Spot smirked, "Yeah, except he's supposed to hate me and kick the shit outta me. I told him, I'm here to take him down, but you? You two are supposed to be on the same side." Niko took the bait and rushed forward, letting Spot not only buy Scat a few minutes but also to show Spot what he would be working with when Mick decided he was ready to fight. The second Niko touched him, Spot rolled his eyes back into his head and let his legs go limp. Darcy dropped with him, letting out a small yelp, but kept his head from getting anymore knocked than it already was. "Niko!" she squeaked, "help me get him up!"

He looked panicked. Spot had to hold his breath to keep from laughing. "Boss will kill me," Niko whimpered.

"Quit your bellyaching and help me!" Darcy ordered shrilly.

There was a soft click as the front door was closed gently. "Enough theatrics, Spot," Mick said, entering silently. Spot opened his eyes and glared at the dark haired man. "Niko, get outside. Rudy has Painten." Darcy whimpered at the sound of Scat's last name, gripping Spot's shoulder tighter. Mick's razor sharp gaze went to her, "I'll deal with you later tonight." She cowered, tucking herself into Spot's chest. Mick stared between them, his face turning red and then purple. He was barely holding himself back from rushing them and yanking her away. Something about the look in Mick's golden eyes made Spot want to toy with him. He placed an arm around her trembling shoulders, sheltering her from Mick's acidic gaze and dared him to say something.

Rudy came in and his eyes immediately sought Darcy out, his brow furrowing before he made himself look away. "We need to get back," he said quietly to Mick's back. Mick seethed another moment before slamming past his second and out the door.

When they were gone, Darcy began to breathe heavily and then to sob. "They're gonna kill him. Mick warned him. He's a dead man." Spot sat with her in silence on the floor while she cried, staring at the secretarial where his mug was still sitting, abandoned again. He needed to get word to Trout before they dumped Scat on Marta's doorstep. His arm around Darcy's shoulders felt so right and he pulled her closer, pressing a tentative kiss to the crown of her head. He had no clue how to be affectionate. His mother did her best but between the men she let into their apartment and the gin she used to forget them and the things they did to her, he never got much of it. Marta tried, but by the time he got to her he'd already seen how quickly touch turned from gentle to painful. He'd already been hurt too many times.

She lifted her tear stain faced and looked at him with questions in her dusky green eyes. "I'm not yours. You shouldn't do that."

"You's not his neither," he answered. "You decide." Her soft eyes widened and she swallowed. No one had ever given her the power over her own body before. She was property until that moment. "Do you want me to kiss you?"

"I want you safe," she whispered.

"That ain't what I asked." He pressed his face closer to hers and without a touch beyond a fingertip softly brushing her chin, he turned her head, tilting it up to his. Her breath came in little panting gasps as her eyes travelled up his face, pausing on his lips they way they paused on his groin the first night they met.

"Not on the lips," she breathed.

He snarled. "That's a whore's kiss. I ain't doing that. If you want me to kiss you, it's going to be a real kiss. A proper kiss." His heart raced and it made his head pound, but he wanted a piece of normal so badly. Her body twisted and her small hands wound their way into his hair. It was the only proper thing he'd ever asked for in his life. He didn't dare touch her back, his hands didn't fix things, but he leaned down as she stretched up and their lips met in the middle. The only girls he'd kissed before had been eager, but she held back, just as afraid as him. It was her first kiss that wasn't taken from her. She wrapped her lips around his, moving in sync and breathed out, dropping her chin so that his lips were against her hair again. It was short, and chaste, but the power of it had her weeping quietly again and dulled the pain in his head. He could get used to that. Again, his eyes went to the open desk. "If I write a letter to someone, can you take it? Will you be safe?" he whispered, tilting her chin up again.

She sniffled and nodded. "They'll be at the Fox, in the basement, for hours toying with him for a bit first."

He nodded too and stood gingerly, giving himself a few breaths to let the room stop swaying before pulling her up beside his. "Go fix your face, I need you to get a message to my brother. Will you?"

She sniffed and nodded, a soft smile spreading over her face. "Anything you need," she answered.

 _ **A/N: So, we are done with the 1891 chapters, the story will be entirely is the "present," meaning 1901, from here on out. One of the things I really wanted to bring forward in this rewrite was the blooming romance between Darcy and Spot and the feeling that Spot, Marta and Trout really are each other's family and that relying on each other was what would get them through. Hope you're all enjoying! Thank you Joker for always reviewing because you love me, and to New reviewer BeeWonderland for giving such high compliments to Marta's complexity as a character. She really is my pride and joy, and all other characters that I write are held in comparison to her. Thank you for your kind words!**_


	19. Chapter 19

November 1, 1901

Trout stood at his normal selling spot, holding up the afternoon edition and playing a rousing tune that he heard at one of the vaudeville theaters on his harmonica when he locked eyes with the blonde girl across the square. She was a sad sight, tattered and dusty looking with bruises covering nearly every bit of visible skin on her face and neck. He offered her a small smile and went back to playing, watching her out from underneath his eyelashes. Girls made him nervous. She watched him for a bit, her cheeks pink with cold and her limp, flaxen hair pulling out of it's soft updo before she charged over in such a decisive way that he found himself backing away from her. She was so tiny that even Race would look tall next to her, but the look on her face was so stony and strong that she might as well have been a two ton elephant escaped from the Central Park Zoo. "Wait," she called, as she saw his foot move back. "I'm looking for Trout, Spot sent me." He placed his palm on his chest and nodded. She narrowed her eyes, suspicious of his silent answer. "Prove it. Tell me something that only someone as close to him as he said you was would know." He made a grunt of frustration in his throat and began to dig in his coat pocket for something to write on. "I ain't got all day, Doll, and neither do you!"

Trout looked up at her, his thick brow furrowed, and then looked back at the ground. "T-talks. . .his s-s-s-leep," he mumbled.

Her voice and stance softened. "I'm sorry, he didn't tell me that you…weren't a big talker, he just told me what to look for: black hair and a harmonica." She put a tentative smile on her on her face and held her hand out. "I'm Darcy." He took it warily, shaking it. "And you're Trout?" He nodded again, pulling his hand back and shoving it into his pocket to search out any of the many pieces of pencil that were normally in there.

She handed a folded sheet of linen over to him. "He needs you. Talks about you all the time." She smiled softly and Trout found himself smiling in awe. The knew that kind of a smile. That soft, sweet, dreamy smile, though he'd never seen it directed at Spot before. "You and Kisser, you'd think you was his blood family the way he talks. He gave me that," she nodded at the letter in his hand, "and said, 'take that to my brother, he'll know what to do.'"

Spot had never once called him his brother in his presence, nor even suggested it indirectly. It was such a stretch, so far from the Spot that he knew that it made Trout worry. Other people always said they acted like brothers, between their bickering and the way they protected one another, but never Spot. "He. . .? " He was shook up and not in control of his mouth. He couldn't finish the simple question and went back to digging for a pencil in his coat pocket. _**Hows he doing?**_ he wrote and shoved the piece of paper at the blonde.

She scanned it quickly and sighed, handing it back to him. "He's ok, not great, but ok. Niko roughed him up pretty bad on the street and in the basement and then Mick messed with him again at the house the other day. I was afraid he lost his zazazoo, until this morning."

 ** _How long does he have?_**

She shook her head, "I don't know. Mick don't tell me as much as I let the others thinks he does. Mick will want him to fit to run and fight before he puts him through the gauntlet." Trout questioned her with his face but she couldn't explain. "I've never actually had to see a gauntlet. You ask Kisser, she knows better than anyone. Read your letter and get going. You don't have much time." She smiled again, and looked around like it was a new world and not just the same old Brooklyn before she turned to hurry away and he unfolded the paper.

Trout,

Get back to the house and stay with Marta, all night if you have to. There's bad things coming for her and I need to know that you'll get her through. She might lose her nerve and she might lose her cool and go crazy. You gotta make sure you can reel her back in. If I don't make it back I need you to go to the convent where she grew up and look for an apple tree, its just a stump now. In the bricks under the fence in front of the tree there's a loose brick and Scat hid stuff there for her. Scat wanted her to have what's hidden there and didn't get the chance to tell her. Take care of her, take care of you.

Spot

Trout read and reread the letter, feeling like he might throw up. " _In case I don't make it back."_ He was giving up. He crushed the thick, heavy paper in his palm and nearly threw it into the gutter, but thought better of it, figuring he might need it to help explain himself later. Other people's word's become precious to someone who doesn't have their own. He was so sick of being continually jerked around by the guy who claimed to be his best friend. Some best friend! Spot Conlon was barely capable of being a functioning human being let alone a friend to anyone! No one could even touch him beyond a hand shake or a clap on the shoulder without getting soaked. Even those two forms of acceptable contact got the person doing the touching a serious and threatening sideways glance so cold that it made the blood in a guy's veins freeze until all he could do was let go and back up a few steps while hoping to God above that he didn't get mauled. What kind of friend acted like that? What kind of friend walked into the lair of a gang willingly and left his friends to clean up the mess? Spot Conlon was a fucking asshole.

He started back towards the Lodging House to follow orders, but swiftly turned, thinking he should tell Nips and show him the note from Spot, but he didn't end up either place. He found himself on the bridge staring out at Randall's Island again and he didn't really remember getting there. He was so goddamned tired. He hadn't really slept since this whole thing started. The only night he really slept since before Scat cornered Marta on her way back from the market and all of the Dockside bullshit began was the night he spent in Manhattan.

He suddenly wished desperately that he'd kept wandering as a seven year old, made it across the bridge, stayed anywhere but Brooklyn. He gripped the railing and brooding out over the water and almost wished he'd stuck around with the assholes he'd once called his family long enough to be carted over there across the water. His memories of the tenement in Queens were vague. He remembered being mad because no one understood him, getting teased by the other kids, he remembered his mother cried that last night. He was so lost in his thoughts that he didn't smell the cigar smoke or hear the happy greeting that was yelled out before Racetrack slapped him on the back. With a frightened yelp, his fist flew out, meeting solidly with Race's chin, throwing his head so far back that he fell over backwards onto the sidewalk. "What the fuck!" Race yelled, feeling his jaw, and sitting back up. His deep brown eyes shocked as he silently questioned his best friend. "Jesus Christ, Trout!"

His breath drew in and out shallowly and erratically, and his eyes were wide with shock. An impish grin grew on Race's face as he rubbed his tender jaw, "Damn, you pack a fucking punch! Remind me not to piss you off anytime soon!" Trout looked away, blushing sheepishly and rubbing the back of his neck with his big paw. He reached down and pulled Race to his feet, making his sorry sign over and over again with his other hand. Race clapped him on the shoulder and waved away his apologies, "Now that I know my jaw is still on my face, are you ok? It ain't like you to try to knock a guy's head off outta the blue! Here I was, coming over to check on my boys before I go to see a guy about a horse and my best friend near knocks my lights out!" The only answer Trout could manage was a forceful exhalation of air before returning to his place by the railing, staring out at the murky river.

"Come on," Race said, pulling his friend away from his brooding by his coat sleeve. "Walk with me while I go find Mush and the boys. Ain't nothing gonna get solved by you staring upstream at that shithole." Trout froze, staring back at Race who sighed and smiled softly, "Yeah, I know. Spot told me a long time ago. You got pissed and came here and I wanted to check on you, but he told me to leave it, that you was thinking and when you was ready you'd come back. I was afraid you was gonna throw yourself over the rail or something, but Spot said you just like to stare at Randall's to remind yourself of how much worse things could be." Trout's brow furrowed deeply, was that why he came here? "You wouldn't be better there, but if you stand here staring anymore I'll commit your myself for going catatonic." A lewd gesture and an low chuckle later, they started moving.

His pocket watch said it was nearly four thirty, he'd been gone a lot longer than he'd intended. The note said to stay with Marta. _**Have to get home,**_ he wrote on his scrap of paper. **_Say hi to Mush and Itey for me._**

Race nodded, "I'll walk as far as I can with you. Heard some humdingers at Medda's a few nights ago." Trout rolled his eyes, Race's taste in jokes was notoriously terrible, and none of them came from the actors on the stage at Irving Hall, just the drunks hanging out in the cheap seats. Race waggled his eyebrows, "What's the difference between a pick-pocket and a Peeping Tom?" He grinned at Trout, waiting for encouragement that didn't come. "Awww, come on Trout, be a sport! Play along!" Begrudgingly, Trout pushed his hand forward, telling Race to go on. "One snatches your watch and the other watches your snatch!" He cackled uproariously while Trout just snorted, wondering why he put up with Race's horrible sense of humor. "I gotta 'nother one!" Race cried in a high pitched voice, still trying to get himself under control from the last knee slapper. "What did the hurricane say to the oak tree?" Go on, Trout signed with a roll of his eyes, not willing to deal with Racetrack whining for attention again. "Hold onto your nuts, this ain't no ordinary blow job!" A sheepish chuckle escaped Trout's lips, rolling into a loud laugh. Once he got started laughing in his deliriously tired and over-stressed state, he couldn't stop. Race told one awful, dirty joke after another and Trout laughed until tears leaked out his eyes and his stomach hurt. Race watched his with awe, having almost never seen his silent friend let out more than a quiet chuckle. "Geez, you do a guy's self esteem good," Race chuckled after awhile, "I never seen a Brooklynite laugh so hard, I mean unless they was torturing puppies or something." Trout flipped him off and put a disgusted look on his face. "I wish I had a camera, no one will believe me that I got you practically peeing his pants." Trout reached over and shoved his shoulder hard enough that he lost his footing and nearly fell on his face, sending both of them into another fit of hysterical laughter.

They were a few blocks from the Lodging House still laughing and shoving each other as they walked when a tiny body came careening down the street and past them. They looked at each other for a moment before Race asked, "Wasn't that Pickle?" and pointed after the kid. Trout didn't waste time answering, just took off running and Race followed him. They easily caught up to the little boy and stopped him. His face was red from running and crying, tear streaked and generally terrified. His big blue eyes were even bigger than normal.

Even after the good laugh with Race put him in a better mood, Trout was not in the right state of mind to deal with Pickle. A quick look between them and an eye roll later, Race knelt down in front of the blubbering kid. "Easy Kid, what happened? Someone try to soak you?"

"There's a dead guy on our dock and he was talking to me!" Pickle wailed. The older boys glanced between him and each other, not sure whether to be amused or horrified.

"Dead guys don't talk, so was he dead or was he talking? Or is talking dead guys a Brooklyn thing?" Trout whacked Race on the back of his well oiled head and Race cussed good naturedly while throwing out meaningless and ridiculous threats.

"Well, he wasn't dead yet," Pickle hiccuped, "but with all that blood out of him, he can't keep being alive very long."

Race stood quickly, his eyes wide. "Did you know him? Was he one of us?"

Pickle shook his head, "No, he was old like Marta." Both of them chuckled, despite the serious situation. "Don't ever let her hear you say that, she'll soak you good." Race said.

Pickle scowled and latched onto Trout's hand, looking up at him. "He kept calling me you, telling me to whistle for Spot and get Kisser. Why'd he think I was you? Why would I whistle for Spot? Spot ain't a bird?"

Race and Trout had another conversation that was all eyes. Race's doubled in size as he let out a long low whistle. "He does kinda look like you as a kid, I mean, dark hair and blue eyes, I guess. But who…" Trout shoved his friend with both hands just to shut him up and held a hand above his head. Race didn't understand but Pickle did.

"Nips?" he asked and Trout nodded emphatically.

Race scrunched his nose up, "How is that Nips?'

"'Cause he's so tall," Pickle answered matter of factly. "You want me to find him?" Trout nodded and signed go on go on until the kid took off running. The older boys ran to the dock together, the smell of blood, hot and metallic in the cold, still air hitting them hard. Despite Race being the leader among them, Trout motioned for him to wait as he crept toward the still form propped up against Spot's tower. His face was heavily bruised and his clothes, torn and bloodied. A small, dark puddle had formed beside him, seeping through the wooden planks of the docks and dripping loudly into the water. At first, Trout thought they were too late, his eyes were closed, and his breathing was shallow, but then his green eyes opened and looked a Trout, a small, tired smile curling his lips. Trout beckoned Race to follow, and the smile on the man's face grew as he knelt down in front of him. "You alright, Mister?" Race asked, but those sad green eyes never left Trout's.

"I thought that little kid was you," Scat panted, his voice breathy and strained. "I got confused, but you ain't said nothing, so its gotta be you, right Trout?" A noise slipped, unbidden, out of Trout's throat that was somewhere between a gasp and a sob as he nodded.

"Hhhhhe-hhhhhhhelp mmmmmme," he demanded, looking up at Race who was staring at him like he'd sprouted wings instead of a voice. The words were muddled and a bit stuttered, but clear enough for Race to, for once in his life, not question, joke or argue. He did as Trout asked him and knelt on Scatter's other side, so that they could cradle him between them by clasping their hands behind his back and under his knees.

They locked eyes as they went to lift. "You owe me an explanation when this is over and done with," Race said, his voice serious and hard. Trout bobbed his head and they moved quickly to Poplar street, setting Scat on a sofa by the front desk. "I'ma go make sure Pickle finds Nips and then hook up with my boys like I came to do. I'll be back later." He turned without another word, leaving Trout, feeling like a piece of shit, to deal with Marta and Scatter alone.

His friend was pissed at him, he didn't follow orders and now had a nearly dead guy and a soon to be hysterical woman on his hands. If Spot made it back, he was going to get his ass handed to him. He wanted to scream and yell and punch a wall, but he caught site of Scat staring at him listlessly and took action. He quietly stole into her room, where she hid a basket full of clean rags and rolled bandages made from sheets that couldn't be mended anymore. He knelt down next to Scat who looked up at him blearily. His hand shook as he pushed Scat's shirt up and winced at the jagged wound in his flank.

He reached for a rag, but Scat brushed his hand away. "Don't bother, Kid." he wheezed. "I ain't worth it."

Trout pressed the rag onto the wound with one hand, but spat in the other, grabbing Scat's. "Yyyyyou are." He held Scat's hand and gaze firmly until Scat nodded. Trout's voice was gritty and thick with emotions as he said "Brothers," with no stuttering. He patched Scat up as best he could, so at least he wan't making a puddle on the floor. He had to soften the blow somehow since he wasn't here to warn her like he was supposed to be.

When he was sure that the knife wound was covered, he crashed through the kitchen door and yelled what he meant to be her name, but all that came out was a jumbled roar of syllables. Her hair was tied up in a kerchief, her brown skirt tattered at the hem and her hands red and chapped from cold air and hot dishwater. She dried them on her apron and looked at him, worry furrowing her delicate brows. "Trout, what's wrong?" He didn't answer, just grabbed her damp hand and began to pull her to the door. "Trout…stop." She had her low voice on as she dug her heels into the floorboards. "Tell me what's going on." But he ran out of words; there were no words that would explain this. She watched him struggle and fail and placed a gentle hand on his arm, another on his broad cheek, drawing him in with her warm eyes. "Write it, sign it, do what you have to do, but calm down. We'll figure it out."

"No!" he roared and turned quickly, pulling away from her, his stupid, broken brain wouldn't let anything out. He turned back to her 'Please. Come. Please,' he signed out of desperation and started to walk back to the door. He paused waiting to see if she would follow. 'I'm sorry,' he signed over and over, his eyes beginning to water as he opened the door and pulled her towards the couch where Scatter lay. She dug her heels in like a child and shook her head as he tugged. He stopped, putting his arm around her and walking her over to him.

Pickle and Nips burst through the door and looked around. Marta stared at Scat and then at her boys for a moment before blinking her eyes hard a few times. Pickle's face broke into a wide grin and he began to skip forward, only to be collared by Nips. "Hey," he cried, "my dead guy ain't dead!" Trout and Nips didn't even need to look at each other, they each knew what needed to be done. Nips hustled Pickle up the stairs, while Trout gently pulled Marta towards her room, so that he and Nips could move the sofa back there. Scat didn't need to be on display.

She fought him, struggled to get out of his strong embrace until he said, "Stop," quietly, in her ear. She went still in his arms, his voice still unexpected enough to stop her in her tracks. A tremor of nerves flowed through her limbs and vibrated into his. He looked down into her frantic face, wishing he could tell her that he had things under control.

Something quieted in her as she stared up at him and all the fight drained from her and she took a deep but shaking breath. "You and Nips, bring him in here, away from the others?" Her voice was lost, weak and small. He nodded, sighing in relief and guided her to her her room, where she pressed herself against the wall. They carried the sofa in, trying their best not to disturb Scatter and set him down near her.

"S-s-s-s-scat," he called quietly, as Marta dropped to her knees.

Scat's eyes opened slowly and a weak smile spread over his face as he drank her in. "Heya, Kiss," he whispered.

"Oh, you stupid ass," she murmured, pulling his hand to her mouth and kissing it, her eyes never leaving his.

"Yeah, I loved you, too, crazy bitch."


	20. Chapter 20

November 1, 1901

"Tell me he's ok," she demanded once Trout had him as patched up as he could. She stood and walked around behind the tall back of the rocking chair. Her eyes looked everywhere but at him, falling to rest on Spot's cane that leaned next to the wall by her door where it had been since the news broke that he was with Dockside.

"He was when I left," Scat answered.

She breathed out and walked mechanically over to kneel on the floor next to him, while he looked back at her with a far away smile in his eyes. "Can't say as much for you," she said, curtly. Trout elbowed her, scowling, and she did it right back, shooing him from the room. He sulked and retreated, but she knew he would stay close.

Scat's breathing was shallow and his voice was just a weak whisper, but he still managed a chuckle. "Let it go, Kiss," he whispered roughly. She scowled, not ready to mourn when there was still so much unsaid between them. Her nose still sought out his signature scent. It was missing the familiar burn of newspaper ink, but all of the other components of the smell of her happiest days were there, and she drank it in hungrily but hated herself for it. It was the smell of their happiness together and he left her. "I mean it, Kiss. Let me go."

Angry at him for trying to leave her again and angry at herself for needing to be told to let him go, she snapped, "How do you know I didn't let you go a long time ago, huh? You were awful to me the other night at the church and you left me after I nearly gave…everything, all of me to save you from them. You went and shoved it in my face!" All of the hurt and anger came spilling out of her all at once. Everything she never told anyone was suddenly at the surface and flowing freely out of her mouth, as if her body was trying to rid itself of a poison. "Do you know what I had to do to buy your freedom? Do you know what he did to me? I did that FOR YOU! I won FOR YOU! And you ran right into his arms!" Her whole body trembled as her brain and heart tried to shut down the memories that she kept locked away so long. She was yelling, screaming even, as she mourned the pieces of herself that died so long ago in that basement. As much as she hated how much her feelings for the old Scatter still affected her, she also hated that she was hurting him in his final hours by acting like a petulant child.

"You went first!" he growled, unable to muster the strength for anything more. Then his eyes closed as he took a deep shuddering breath, and her heart jolted, terrified that it would be his last, but it came back out as a groan. When his eyes opened again, she could see his heart in them. He was weary, ready to close the chapter of his life where he left what he loved for Dockside. That chapter and all the chapters after were at an end. With a ragged breath he whispered, "Don't let our last talk be a fight." He reached back for her, his hand trembling. "Mick only told me bits and pieces, made it sound bad, and that all the…seducing was your idea. That you whored yourself out to get him to take you instead of me. Rudy only told me the truth but I didn't believe him." He pulled in a shuddering breath. "I'm sorry, Kiss. I'm sorry I didn't fight, I'm sorry you put yourself on the line for me and I went anyway. I'm sorry you never got everything I promised you." He closed his eyes, and she watched his face blanch even further. He was slipping away right before her eyes. Each word seemed to make him weaker than the last. "I ruined us, Marta, and you deserved more than someone who would throw you away. I never loved no one else," he grunted. "I tried, but none of them was you."

She arched an eyebrow and let out a small smile, her mouth curving in a deliciously wicked lilt. He could always melt her anger away, and if there was anytime to let go of those old feelings, it was now. "Do you really think Brooklyn, or New York…or the world even could handle another me? One me is enough for this lifetime."

"You was always the only girl for me," he sighed, while clumsily trying to cup her cheek in his hand. She held it there for him, trying to stop herself from reveling in the familiar roughness of his touch. The pads of his fingers against her face might as well have been matches burning into her skin. "It ain't right, but I'm glad Mick needed to get one more jab in on you. He did me a favor, letting me see you one more time. It was kind, in a fucked up kinda way." He grinned at her as best he could and she laughed half heartedly and pushed his hair back off of his forehead with the hand that wasn't still holding his to her cheek. He closed his eyes, smiling at the familiar gesture of affection and relaxed back into the sofa.

"I'm sure it had much less to do with kindness and much more to do with playing me a little more," she answered stonily. "I was one of his favorite playthings."

He grimaced and his fingers tightened against her cheek. "You were," he ground out through gritted teeth. "Still are. None of this was ever about me, just like everything else. I was just bait for you. Mick knows how to play people, and he played the two of us like a coupla tin fiddles." His awareness shocked her and made her even more angry.

"But what about Spot? Is he bait for me? What's so damn special about me?" Those stupid traitorous tears started to burn the backs of her eyes and she bit the insides of her cheeks until the biting metallic taste of blood tinged her tongue.

He squirmed and his brow furrowed as he fought the sleepy fog that was overtaking his brain. "I dunno," he answered his words starting to slur. "I wasn't let in on a lot and since he caught me at the church, I been blacklisted, but something ain't right. It ain't like it was before. I ain't sure if you's being played or if Spot is...but something is wrong. I just ain't smart enough to know what. I was never smart enough for none of it."

She smiled, even though her bottom lip trembled. She could feel him slipping away and didn't want to fight anymore. "It was always about you for me, Scat. I was more 'Kiss and Scat,' than I was just Kisser until you were gone and I had to figure myself out. Until Mick. You were smart enough to know who you were all on your own. Smart enough to teach me everything you knew. You were plenty smart, Scat." A great heaving sob ripped through her and a big tear rolled down Scat's face as he watched her break down.

"Tell me what happened, Kiss. Tell me what he did to you."

She shook her head and struggled to control herself. "No. I don't want you listening to that." She couldn't face him, couldn't look into his dull, nearly lifeless green eyes and tell him what she hadn't spoken about to anyone. She'd rather he died thinking she betrayed him than die disgusted at what she let Mick do to her for him. She didn't want to see the shame and pity that she knew would follow her telling the truth. No one would look at her like that, she would make sure of it.

But his hand was warm on her face, and those lovely eyes, the green of apothecary glass, begged her for the truth and she couldn't deny him in his final moments. At least the looks wouldn't last long, and the secret would die with him. "I want to know the truth; I want that week put to rest and I want to know that you forgave both of us."

She nodded, forcing her eyes upward and took a deep breath. "Mick made everyone go to the basement and he had them line up to fight me. They weren't supposed to knock me out, just hurt me and try to make me cry, make me beg for help. Seven of them signed up and he was calling all the rest pansies for not joining in 'the fun.' Niko was first." It hurt to let it out, her body rebelled against it, tried to keep it in by tightening her stomach and her throat, making it hard to talk, hard to breathe hard to think.

Scat made a disgusted growl in his throat. "Jackass," he grumbled.

"Fights like one too," she agreed and he chuckled weakly. "I choked him until he tapped out."

"Nah!" he coughed in disbelief. "How'd you do that? Greek bastard is built like a brick shithouse!"

"I tripped him, put my knee in his neck and broke his hand," she answered with a sheepish grin. Putting Niko in his place twice was the only part of that night that she felt at all good about. Her grin faltered, "But he got me back. Grabbed me by my neck, touched me," her hand protectively drifted to cover her breast and Scat's eyes followed it down. His lips pressed into a thin, pale line and a weak flash of anger went through his eyes. "And Mick went crazy on him, put a knife to his neck and beat the hell out of him. I fought a few more and then Rudy. Rudy tried to help me and I broke his leg, and he congratulated me for it. He told me it was a battle won fairly, but it wasn't. He let me knock him down and then I kicked his knee in. He might have been fine afterwards, but I never will be. I will never forgive myself for taking advantage of his kindness that way." She felt sick to her stomach, but his thumb moved gently back and forth on her cheek, encouraging her softly, soothing all of the sharp edges that tried to keep the words pinned inside of her. "And then Mick took his turn. He snuck up on me and choked me. He kissed me and bit me," her voice was tiny and shaking. The bruise from that bite stayed with her for over a month, and she was sure she could still feel the ache under the hand that was protectively covering her breast still. "He sat on me and…did things, but was looking at the other girls the whole time. And I played along because it made him let go of me a little. And there was this bottle, and Clarice helped me reach it and I smashed it on his head. Rudy told me I won and I ran. Mick called me the queen of Brooklyn and your majesty the whole time I was there, and when I left, Clarice said, 'Long live the queen,' and it never went away. I just wanted you, Teddy, just us. I didn't want what I got."

"Do you forgive me, Kiss?" he asked, his voice barely a whisper.

"Yeah, Scat. I forgive you. Do you forgive me?"

"There…ain't nothing…to forgive," he grunted. She knelt close to him and pressed a chaste kiss to his cheek, feeling like they were back at the beginning only he was the one, laid out and weak. She smoothed a thumb over his cheekbone and smiled. "Forgive yourself, Kiss. Stay away from the Fox."

"You know I can't stay away. I won't let Mick threaten my family." His eyes were closed, fluttering but closed, like his lids were too heavy to lift anymore. She pushed his hair back, raking her fingers through it like she always used to love to do, feeling the loose curls twist around her fingers. His breath whistled out and when he spoke his voice was just a thready whisper.

"Then promise…to be careful…and to give yourself…a break. You're not the bad one, here, Marta."

She left her cheek pressed against his, combing his hair back over and over. "Good night, Asshole," she hiccuped, smiling through her tears and he let out a few weak chuckles and then was gone. She lowered herself down to set next to the couch, resting her head on his shoulder, but her tears were gone. The time for bitterness was over. The past was over. Kiss and Scat were officially over. She wasn't continuously bleeding out straight from her heart any more. That old wound was finally closed and she was free to attack, knowing that Scat was on her side, behind her all the way, just like he always promised, even if only in her heart.

 _A/N: I'm not gonna lie, when I wrote this the first time it took me a long time to get over it, because I started imagining Scar and Marta as teenagers when they ere young and in love. Scat is the kind of guy I fell in love with over and over again in high school. Not so book smart, but incredibly kind and funny and charismatic and also adorably kinda raunchy. I loved his type. My Perfect Disaster took shape not just because of Trout needing a girl, but because I needed to show Scat as the good guy he started at. Rest in Peace, Scatter._


	21. Chapter 21

November 1, 1901

Trout paced the width of the school room. He hated this room, but it could always be counted on to have large expanses of places to write words, to make his thoughts make sense when they got trapped in his head, and right then, the thoughts in his head were down right scary. He heard everything Marta told Scatter. He waited long after they both went silent until the electricity running through his body wouldn't let him sit still anymore. Marta took care of all of them, and if anything could be said about Trout Cooper, it was that he was loyal as a damn dog, but Mick wanted him to be Spot's second. Time and again he had turned down Spot's offer to be second. In his mind, Spot never asked him because he was worthy of the position, but because they'd been friends so long. To him, it was a favor, a pity title. Spot had been his closest friend since they were seven years old, of course he'd offer him the chance, and Trout never once took the offer seriously. For someone else to offer it to him... That might mean he really was more than the big quiet guy with the muscles and the heavy hit. It was tempting to take him up on it.

He'd only ever felt special or chosen one other time in his life, when a girl with dark brown eyes looked at him like he hung the sun and the moon just for her, but that ended spectacularly badly. To feel wanted, to feel like he could make something of himself without needing to be fixed was a heady tonic, one that would be hard to resist. He stopped and stared at the black board. The chalk twirled in between his middle and ring finger of his right as he tried to sort his thoughts out enough to get them down and see them while his left rubbed absently at his neck. His dark curls hung in his face and he blew them away before taking the step closer and writing the first word.

 _Inside man_ , he wrote at the top of the board with arrows dropping down pointing to _Clarice/Rudy_ and _Trout_. If Mick was going to get him anyway, why not go on his own and try to get information back to the others to help them? They needed someone who knew what Mick was putting together for the gauntlet. They couldn't steal Spot away, because Mick would always find a way to draw him back in, threats, kidnappings, there was no telling how far he would take it. Spot had to be there and he had to fight. All they could do was help him through. If Trout was inside, starting his training to take over as second he could do that. _Play both sides_ , he wrote under his own name and then _Turned once, might do again_ , under Rudy and Clarice. He frowned, and put the chalk back against the blackboard, wincing against the squeal it made on contact and the implication of his words as he wrote, _Mick will be watching, expecting betrayal_ , under his name, and _Trusted, close circle_ , under Rudy and Clarice. He knew he shouldn't be disappointed, he should have been thrilled that it was looking like a bad idea, but that nagging thought that he could finally be enough all on his own, just the way he was with Dockside was still there. He wanted to make it work. He hungered for that chance.

He continued to write and draw arrows from thought to thought, letting the rest of the world melt away. He'd failed at everything he'd ever done except being a newsie and being at Spot's flank. Being part of a family was a disaster; love ended terribly; he'd been the only one to stand up to Spot when Jack came asking for help with the strike; and he'd ended up in jail with a broken arm for most of the action. He had to find a way to make this work, to finally come out of something on top. He didn't hear anything outside of the thoughts that were flowing out of his hand and onto the blackboard so quickly that he could hardly keep up, not even Mush coming to the schoolroom door and staring at the scrawling, winding mess of words with his mouth open. "H-heya, Trout," he called nervously, snapping Trout to attention. He turned, glaring at Mush. He didn't like to be pulled away and he was afraid that Mush would say something about his plans, try to talk him out of them, tell Marta, somehow get in his way. "You...uh...you seen Race?"

Trout started to shake his head no, but then thought better of it. Mush, Race and Boots were there to keep an eye on Dockside from the outside and Mush had managed to charm his way into the hearts of some of the dancing girls at the Fox. He was the best source Trout had at the moment. He looked back at his friend, to see his dark eyes trying to make sense of Trout's lines and arrows. He didn't even think of it, he just grabbed Mush by his vest front and dragged him closer to the blackboard, slamming him into it and holding him there by the back of his neck, smashing his face against the cold slate. "Trout! Lemme go!" he yelped. "I didn't do nothing!" Trout grunted in frustration and grabbed Mush by his chin, turning his face up so he was nearly eye level with Rudy and Clarice's names. "I don't know nothing new! I don't know what you want! Lemme go!"

He got up into Mush's face and glared, taking a deep breath. Race knew his secret and Marta knew. Soon enough everyone would know anyway, and he'd rather it be on his terms. "Y-y-you t-t-t-t-t-t-t...". He stopped and shoved his hair back pointing at Rudy and Clarice's names in frustration. "T-t-t-t-te...t-t-telllll mmmmmmme." He pointed again and Mush looked back and for between his face and where his finger was pointing in bewilderment. The confused Manhattanite waited too long and Trout, already too frustrated to function slammed him back again so hard that his eyes went unfocused for a moment. "That!" he barked, pointing at the names.

"I don't know!" Mush yelled back.

Before Mush could yelp out anything else or Trout could abuse him anymore, a low quiet voice cut between them. "This is what Mick does, Trout. You haven't even seen him with your own eyes and he's changing you." He glanced back at her and every muscle in his body tightened. She didn't understand what he was looking for, she couldn't. She looked up at his diagram on the black board and shook her auburn head slowly. "Imagine the monster you could become if it was you that could go and be in there. He could take all that anger that I've spent years trying to calm and turn you into a loose canon. A man who would beat one of his friends senseless for information." She raised a brow at Mush and then turned the fiery intensity of her eyes back on Trout. "But that's not you, that's not the boy I raised. Put him down." Trout shook his head and turned his attention back to Mush. He had to make him understand.

'He tell me,' he signed.

Marta's hand rested on his shoulder. "Most people will tell you what you need if you just ask. Let. Him. Go."

Race rushed in the room, having heard the voices. "Trout! Damnit!" He clawed at Trout's arm, but the big Brooklynite flicked him away. "Goddamnit, put him down! What the fuck is going on with you?"

Marta was staring at the board with her hazel eyes wide. They darted from word to word. "You really think he would let you near us if you went in there? We'd never see you again, and if we did, you wouldn't be you anymore. You'd just be another goon, just like the one who broke your arm. Is that what you want? You chose us over school before when you were given a chance. Would you really choose this" she threw her arm out towards the black board, "over family? If you would, you should get going now. You're already too far gone; he's already in your head and I can't trust you if he's in your head." He let Mush go, his grip loosening until the shorter boy could easily push away and Marta took away her hand from his shoulder and side stepped so she was in front of him. "He promises lots of things; he promised Scat too, but he doesn't deliver. He'll string you along for years until you don't know any other way to live. You think you can survive like that?" Trout shook his head. He knew he couldn't. "Good." She grabbed his chin and forced him to look her in the eye while his blazed at the intrusion. "You don't need him. You don't need Mick. You're fine as you are." Her hand loosened, softly touching his face. "What do you want Mush to tell you?"

"Ask him yourself, jackass!" Race hissed, pacing out his anger a few feet away and rubbing the bruise on his upper arm from the hit that sent him flying backwards.

Mush gave him a gentle shove, "He did, but I...I dunno what he said." His soft brown eyes looked at Trout apologetically as Trout's insides felt like they might shrivel up like raisins.

"What'ya mean you dunno what he said? I heard him talk, plain as day, earlier! He can talk, he's a liar. Just looking for sympathy!" Race yelled and Trout drew a sharp breath in, feeling two feet tall instead of six.

Marta put her hand out to stop Mush from elaborating, seeing that it might shatter Trout to hear it explained. "Tell me," she coaxed. He shook his head, staring at the floor. He couldn't, not in front of Race. "Trout, what were you trying to figure out?" He raised his eyes to meet hers and flicked them back up to the names on the blackboard. She followed his gaze. She'd been so preoccupied by the parts of his chart under his name, she hadn't even seen the other side. "You beautiful, brilliant bastard," she whispered taking a step towards it. "Clarice. She helped me once, she might do it again." She spun around and grabbed Mush by his collar, "Is a woman named Clarice still there? She was a dancer, brown hair and eyes."

Mush nodded fervently, clawing at her hand. Trout had to feel bad for him, he volunteered to help and all they were doing was manhandling him. "The Madame is called Clarice! I promise! She's in charge of the dancing girls!" Trout reached out and put his hand on top of Marta's prying her grip away, not daring to look at Mush, instead latching his gaze onto Marta's. She glared back at him for a moment and then let go easily. Mush straightened his clothes while Trout and Marta stared at each other, each searching the other's face for understanding. "You thinking what I'm thinking?" she murmured. He nodded, pointing at her and then at Clarice's name on the blackboard and making the sign for "meet." She might not have understood many of his signs, but that one looked enough like two people meeting that she nodded in agreement and turned back to Mush. "Can your girls get you to her without drawing Mick's attention?"

He looked at them both mistrustingly, "Yeah, I guess."

"I need to see Clarice. I need to talk to her, away from Dockside, away from Brooklyn. I don't care if we have to meet in New Jersey! Let her pick the place and the day, just so long as it's before Spot's gauntlet. Go, right now! Please, Mush!"

Mush sighed and put his hat back on his head, but Trout stopped him and signed, 'sorry,' without looking up. Mush clapped him on the arm, "I get it. Its ok, but keep ya hands off from now on." Trout nodded and chanced a glance up to see the sad half smile that Mush flashed him before heading out the door.

Marta squeezed his arm and went back to the kitchen to see if the supper she started before he brought Scat in was salvageable, leaving Trout and Racetrack alone together. Race was silent as Trout erased the side of the board that had him going into Dockside, but then he spoke as Trout was about to leave. "You and me go back farther than anyone else I got left, and you didn't tell me something so big?"

'Not now,' Trout signed and Race and frowned deeply at the dismissal. Trout looked up at him wearily, "Y-y-you un-nah knnnnnnnnnnow?" Race was wincing at the stutters and false starts and Trout stepped closer, towering over the second real friend he ever made, knowing that confronting exactly what he was hiding all this time wouldn't really help, it would just make Race feel bad for how he acted. But Trout felt bad, too. Couldn't Race understand that it was never about him? Until Spot was gone, he'd spoken to Spot, Carlos and JoAnna. He never wanted it out. When he was silent, he could convince people that he was just as quick as them, but the second they heard him, they assumed he was delayed, deformed, and not right. Race spoke so easily and so much; he'd never understand. Besides that, he never felt strange around Race. Race made him feel like the way he was was fine. Thinking about it and not being able to explain himself piled up and his mouth took over. He stopped trying to fix the words. He stopped fighting his mouth or his brain or whatever it was that made him the way he was, and let the words come as they were. A random tumble of syllables rolled out with all of the musicality of real language and Race's deep, dark eyes grew wide. Trout got going and he couldn't stop. Years of dammed up words rolled out one after the other with no one to understand them. The words consumed him until Marta's arms wrapped around him from behind, squeezing tightly.

"Racetrack, beat it," she ordered quietly against his shoulder blade, but Race was frozen in place. Trout had to pull an arm free from her embrace to shut himself up with a hand over his mouth. His lungs didn't want air, but he forced it in and out and she waited until he was quiet but breathing heavily to let him go. "Go to the kitchen and sit at the table." She paused for a minute. "I don't have time to clean it up, so no throwing shit around. Just sit and wait while I go write a note for the undertakers. We need to get Scat taken care of."

"I gotta walk anyway. I'll go," Race mumbled and shoved his hat low over his eyes. He left without another look at Trout and didn't speak to him for the rest of the week while they waited for the meeting that Clarice agreed to in the Bronx. He hadn't been so lonely since he was on his own. Everyone was afraid he'd snap, no one but Nips and Pickle would talk to him. Marta was hardly talking to anyone, going through the motions and getting her job done. Scat was taken away and buried in a pauper's grave on Randall's Island with nothing but a number to show where he was.

November 9, 1901

Finally, the day of the meeting came and Marta and Trout made their way to the Bronx. They stood outside of Keenan's Bar for a long time, both one edge. "I don't know about this," Marta said. "I've been here before. This is Barkers Bailey's hangout." Trout gave her an incredulous look that made her smile. "Same reason as now, looking for a way to stop Mick. Back then his second was a good guy, but I know he passed. I'm not sure Barkers is any more stable than Mick. Same animal, different colored spots." She twisted her hair nervously. Lately, she spent so much time fiddling with it that she didn't even bother putting it up anymore. Trout held out his elbow like a gentleman and tugged her across the street. Just like Carlos told him she did at Moriarty's, she froze in the doorway, but he pulled her in with some gentle coaxing. She scanned the tables, fidgeting nervously. "Everyone knows Mick and Barkers hate each other. If Mush sent us into a trap..."

"It ain't a trap," a snappish female voice interrupted. "Mick and Barkers do hate each other, which is why Mick started sending a broken, used up whore as a gift to Barkers when he wants something and not a sweet young dancer." She stood, with some difficulty and glared at them. Marta's nails dug into his arm. "It's what makes it perfect. Rudy can easily make up business that requires him to come and Mick doesn't think a thing of it when he brings me. Barkers hates Mick so much that he doesn't give a shit if we use the place to plot Mick's death, so long as his name don't come up if we fuck it all up in the end. And he lets us use the table...nearly free of charge." The brunette limped towards them with an uneven gate, using a thick cane to steady herself. She barely looked like she could stand on her own, but something about her rubbed Trout the wrong way and he moved in front of Marta. Clarice chuckled humorlessly, "Down boy. I've never done this woman a stitch of harm and I never intend to." She stared at him, looked him up and down appraisingly like a piece of meat and smirked. "Big, protective, silent, and a looker under all that mess on your head...you must be the other one. If you were smart you'd be in hiding with your pals in Manhattan...anywhere but right here. It's not safe for you."

"Nnnnnot hhhh...hhhhide," he rumbled barely above a whisper. "Nnnnnot ssss...sssss...sssssi'ent."

He fully expected her to laugh, he had already steeled himself against it, knowing that his vulnerability was on display and that any gang member worth his or her salt would exploit that to see what he was really made of. But she didn't. Instead, her gaze turned appreciative. "That's good. You'll need that to get through to him. Mick is doing everything he can to tear that boy to pieces; he'll need someone he can trust."

"Spot?" Marta yelped. "How is he? Have you seen him?"

Clarice grimaced like she was in pain. "Come sit with me." She gestured towards the table she got up from and followed them back over in her stiff, uneven gait. "He's making it; I saw him yesterday. He's starting to look a little worse for wear...what with Mick going in there to torture Darcy in front of him. I don't know much, any trust Mick had in me was broken the day I kicked a whiskey bottle." She stared deeply into Marta's eyes and Marta paled. She knew exactly how much Clarice sacrificed. "But from what I've seen and overheard, there are rough days to come and if you want any chance of saving that boy, you need to listen good."

 _A/N: Hi everyone! Phew, its been awhile! I never meant to let this story go so long, but Trout...I dunno, he went on a vacation or something. He did not want to play. Anyway, I got him talking again and here we are! I promise not to let it go so long next time! Hope you enjoy and didn't completely forget the plotline while I was gone! Please read and review._


	22. Chapter 22

November 10, 1901

When word was sent that Mick was on his way, Spot watched the life drain out of her. "You can't barge in again," she said softly as she brushed her hair. "Mick's…not right in the head and he'll go crazy on you. Please. Stay out." He stared back at her from the window. He stood with the quilt from his bed wrapped around his shoulders and one hand, it's fingers long and slender and slightly crooked from the number of breaks and jams they'd sustained through the years, pressed against the cold glass of the window. The cold seeping in from the outside was his only connection to his city, one of only two things he'd ever had a meaningful relationship with. He hadn't slept since the blows to the head stopped forcing him to sleep. He woke with a yelp and a start, sometimes waking when his feet hit the floorboards, ready to fight. The first few nights he tried to make himself go back to sleep, but when he just woke again a few hours later, with his heart pounding and his fists swinging, he stopped and just stared into the darkness. The longer he stayed in the brownstone, the more he looked like he was getting younger rather than older. His eyes were wider and more lost looking, with deep, bruise-like shadows underneath and all of the food Darcy made sure he got took away some of the sharper angles of his face and physique. He cheeks were rounder and softer than they'd been since before he found Marta. He was not filled out by any stretch of the imagination, he just wasn't as scrawny and angular. She was always bringing food, complaining about fattening him up, but he refused to eat a lot of it, breaking it into pieces and only eating a fraction of what she made.

She watched him, waiting for an answer. He turned to her, keeping a hand rooted to the glass, attached to Brooklyn and Marta where things were real and made sense. "I ain't gonna sit around and listen to him kick the crap outta you while he yells about loving you!" he snapped and his voice cracked and his chest heaved. The quilt around his shoulders dropped to the floor as he stared at her in wonder. The past and the present were overlapping each other and he was having a hard time keeping his feet on the floor.

Her head tilted to the side, her cornsilk colored eyebrows furrowing, "He doesn't love me, Spot," she said quietly, "and he never said he did. I don't have anymore illusions about that anymore, thanks to you."

He shook himself, hating the unfocused, confused fog that seemed to be eating away at who he was. "I don't know why I said that," his voice was soft and terrified. "I'm losing my shit here, Darcy. I gotta get out." He turned back to the window and pressed his forehead against the glass, feeling the comforting shiver of goosebumps run through the length and width of his skin. He wanted to be home in the Lodging House, in his carefully constructed world where he was untouchable. Where everything made sense.

The feather light touch of her fingers on his shoulder made him jerk away instinctively, before forcing his body to relax, but her touch didn't falter and he crossed his arm over his shoulder and covered her hand with his. "Promise me you'll stay out, Spot," she whispered, pressing her body into his back, her head coming to rest just between his shoulder blades. "I won't let you die trying to protect me, you got bigger battles to fight. You gotta stay alive and get away from Mick free and clear." Her touch warmed him, pushing the ice away. He wasn't sure whether he liked it or wanted the familiarity of the cold.

He squeezed her hand more tightly and pressed his head harder against the glass, the pressure and cold ache somehow making him feel better. "I ain't promising nothing," he gritted out through a clenched jaw. "I don't make promises I can't keep, but I'll do my best."

He felt her smile into his back, the contracting muscles in her face shifting against his that were taut with anxiety. "I know. Thats what makes you better than them," she hummed into his spine. "They tell me what I want to hear; he tells me only lies. You never lie to me, even though I don't like what you say sometimes."

"Don't talk about the others, 'specially him," he growled, his hand tightening even more around hers until she whimpered. "I'm sorry," he muttered, loosening his grip until his hand just rested on hers again. "But leave them out of it." She nuzzled her face further into the soft spot between his shoulder blades. Her tiny hand ran up his ribs making shivers run down his spine, but not the placating shivers of cold. These left him warm and invigorated with a tight knot of need in the pit of his abdomen. She pulled back a moment and nudged his body, asking him to turn around and he obliged, letting his head leave the comforting glass and fall forward to rest on top of her silky, blond hair. His hand came to rest on her narrow shoulders as she picked open the buttons on his undershirt and began to softly, curiously and tentatively kiss the skin on his breastbone before stepping onto her tip toes to to trail them along his clavicle. The delicate strands of her hair tangled around his fingers as he tilted her head back and brought his lips to hers.

She drew his bottom lip into her mouth and gently tightened her teeth around it, letting it slide back out, dragging against her bite. He moaned, gripping her hair more tightly and pressing his hips into hers. When his lip was free from the tortuous but wonderful trap her mouth had snared it in, he pulled away panting and lifted her up into his arms, burying his face in her neck while her legs wrapped tightly around his slim hips. His hands squeezed at her thighs and the subtle curve of her buttocks, feeling the hardness of muscle and the softness of her flesh in his hands. The heat that radiated off of her was as intoxicating as the smell of her perfume, the same perfume he'd hated only a few short days ago. "No marks," she gasped as he bit down on the tendon connecting her neck and shoulder, "he'll know. He's still coming."

He nodded and released her skin from his mouth and continued to kiss and suck and tilted her head back to grant himself better access to her soft, perfumed skin, her racing pulse point and her small, round ear. She tasted soapy and sweet and he wanted her like he had never wanted anything before. "Darcy," he grunted hungrily as he rested her hips on the edge of the washstand, knocking the heavy, porcelain basin to the floor. The crash of breaking pottery didn't disturb the two lovers, as wrapped up in each other as they were. She caught his mouth in another frantic, dominating kiss full of thrusting tongues and grazing teeth. Her hand pressed in the crook of his elbow and he let her guide his hand down to her breast, smirking at the breathy gasp that came from her. His hand cupped around the soft flesh gently, kneading it and testing it for what made her eyes close, what made those soft, wanting whimpers come out of her lips that had turned full and pink from kissing. When his hand left it, her lip pouted and he caught it in a deep kiss while his lithe fingers undid the first few buttons of her blouse. The warm skin under her blouse was just as sweet and soap scented as her neck, but warmer, further pushing the cold out of his bones. He rested his nose in the indent between her breasts and drank in the smell, before his hands pressed back up her abdomen, shoving the open edges of her blouse aside to touch the soft skin there and returning his mouth to the place on her neck where he could feel her heartbeat against his tongue, racing wildly. Her hand slipped, her fingers barely touching his skin, down his abdomen further and further, so slowly that he though he might die in anticipation.

"Take me to the bed, Spot," she murmured in his ear as her fingers trailed along the drawstring waits of his shorts. He pulled away and stared into her smoky green eyes. Her face was flushed and her lips were swollen. His heart was pounding against his ribs. He wanted her, all of her, everything she was offering, but suddenly couldn't take it. He shook his head and dropped his gaze to the floor.

"You should go get ready. He'll be here soon. I'll bet he doesn't like sloppy seconds." He felt like such a shit saying it, but he needed to push her away. She didn't want Mick to hurt him for barging in on them, and he found that he didn't want her getting hurt because he couldn't control himself, even though she obviously wanted it to. She pushed him a step back, but held his hand in hers, searching his face. His hair guarded his expression, but she understood and slid down off the washstand.

"Stay in the kitchen, its as far away from my room as you can get. You won't hear as much. I'll clean this up when I'm done."

"Be careful, Darce."

"This is my job, Doll," she answered sadly and pulled her hand away from his. "I do what I'm told. If he says shut up and take it, that's what I do. I'd be dead already if I didn't know that." Her soft footsteps moved away from him and towards the door and she was silent a moment. "Don't trust a damn thing he says unless he has proof, Spot. You haven't seen a fraction of what he is capable of and I promise that you don't want to. He'll bait you and tease you. Don't forget that you are here for his amusement, everything else comes second."

He waited in his room for Mick to arrive and then snuck down the back stairwell to the kitchen. As the screaming and crying and ceiling rattling thumps from her body hitting the floor started, he began to pick at a scab on his arm. His nail dug in a little further with every disheartening sound from upstairs. He wasn't even watching what he was doing, his eyes stared ahead angrily as he tried not to hear. He tried not to think or hear, he tried not to notice the glasses on the drainboard rattling with the force of Mick's blows. He only focused on the feeling of his nail digging in. He focused on the dull ache, the slip of blood under his finger, the metallic smell. He heard the drops hit the floorboards, but continued on. He would have grabbed a knife and carved into himself if he had been thinking of it, if it would have helped him drown out Darcy's cries better. She was begging now, pleading with Mick for something. Her cries were so hysterical that they carried through the thin walls as if he was still in his bedroom next to hers.

It wasn't the first time he'd resorted to this. When he was little, hiding in closets from the men in the tenement, he'd pick the scabs on his knees. His mother would pull him out and paddle him for staining his clothes again. His knees were scarred still. He shook his head, thinking of the tenement was just as bad as thinking about Darcy screaming. But the parallels were there. Him, alone with a woman, a woman who wasn't strong like Kisser, who couldn't save herself from anything that was thrown her way, not allowed to leave a house ruled by someone awful. He didn't remember why they lived there, who the men were, but they were awful. They made her scream just like Darcy. They held her down and did things to her, things that she was never the same after. Things his little brain couldn't have begun to understand. They did things to him too, so he hid from them and his mother let him. She couldn't stop them if they got a hold of him, but she did let him hide and even lied about knowing where he was.

Mick's footsteps sauntered casually down the front steps and out the door but Spot couldn't quite break away from that old memory, as if he had stepped through some invisible barrier and wasn't able to get all the way back through to the real world. It was through a fog that he stepped out of the kitchen. His mind howled. The noise in his head, the screaming of some wild animal that he always knew was inside of him was so loud after Mick's visits that he could hardly hear over the top of it. The house was so quiet, empty except for him and Darcy, but still he winced at the never-ending noise clamoring for release inside his head.

The stairs seemed to stretch as he climbed, getting higher and longer with every step and the narrow corridor at the top made his heart nearly stop. It was too much like the one in that dream world that he couldn't get all the way out of. It felt dark and sinister and he nearly ran through it, just like he did as a child and just like he did in his nightmares. There was never any way to know what he would find when he got to Darcy. Some days, she was staring blankly out the window, soulless and blank and didn't come back into her body for hours. Other times she was just an unconscious heap of bruised skin and pale hair left wherever Mick threw her when he was done using her, but the worst were the times that she was crying. She would cling to him, as if his battered soul could possibly make anything better for her. He held her, at first just because he knew he should, even though the contact made his skin crawl. He didn't deserve the comfort that he felt from her touch; he could feel his taintedness and dirt rubbing off on her, sullying her.

His scarred knuckles rapped gently on the door. "Darce? You ok?" he called quietly. His heart hammered away and crawled up into his throat in an attempt to escape as he peered into the room. Her beautiful blonde hair was full of blood and a small puddle, no bigger than a teacup had gathered on the floor. He rushed to her side and moved the sticky strands away to find a tiny cut in her hairline. Despite the amount of blood, it wasn't serious and he blew out a relieved breath. Her face was a mottled mix of new and old bruises, because the longer Spot stayed, the more violent Mick got with her.

He pulled the quilt from her bed off of the floor and wrapped it around her, covering her nudity as he pulled her into his arms. the tiny woman moaned and writhed, weakly trying to break free and push him away. "Its ok Darcy," he murmured in her ear as he sat her down on his bed. He didn't want her to wake up surrounded by the smell of Mick in the same sheets she was assaulted in. "It's just me. I ain't gonna hurt ya." She seemed to listen, stilling and falling into a deep sleep. He didn't understand how Mick could do it. How could he look at this girl, not even five feet tall with a face like a fancy porcelain doll and feel like he could have any reason to hurt her the way he did?

"Spot?" she croaked as he wet a washcloth.

"I'm here."

"Is he gone?"

He nodded and sat down next to her gingerly, the dip of the mattress making her wince in pain. "He's gone. I waited just like ya asked." She sighed and nodded off again while he gently tried to clean some of the blood out of her hair before it stained. Alone with his thoughts again, he did his best to focus on her, not letting those cobwebbed shadows in his mind take hold until a knock came to the front door.

Darcy was still sound asleep and didn't stir as Clarice called up the stairs, "Darcy?"

The beast stopped its howling at her voice. He didn't like her, he didn't like the way she played both sides. He wanted to grab Darcy and hide her so that the woman downstairs couldn't get to her, but he knew that Darcy trusted her. He shoved down the want to yell and scream and make her go away, scare her so that she never came close to what was his again, and managed to grit out, "Up here," huskily. The woman slowly made her way p the stairs on her uneven legs, huffing with exertion and pale with pain. Normally, she would make her way straight to Darcy and begin taking care of her bruises and cuts, but that day she stood in the doorway staring at him. He didn't like the way she looked at him. He didn't like the calculating look in her eye like she knew what was going on in his head. The little bit of himself left hoped, for her sake, that she didn't really know.

Her deep hazel eyes, too muddy to be green and too green to be called brown, stared deep into the tatters of his soul. He was used to her smirking and quipping, joking in a mean way, but she remain serious as she took him in. "I got a few messages for you," she said quietly. "Something for you to keep tucked in your back pocket for when you get low." She smiled and it looked like it hurt, like the muscles there hadn't been used in so long that they rusted. "That friend of yours, the big one, and Kisser came to see me." She watched him as her words sank in and he sat down on the edge of the bed, settling for the first time since before Mick's arrival. "They're trying to get you some help, make sure you make it out of here. I told them everything I know."

He shook his head and swiped his hand down his face as the noise started up again. "They can't save me. I have to fight on my own."

She nodded and took a slow step towards him. He didn't know his hand went over Darcy until her warm skin was under his palm. Clarice raised her hands in surrender. "They know that, Toots, but Mick ain't gonna stop till he's dead. You worry about fighting your fight; they's gonna worry about making sure Mick goes down and stays down."

The animal in his head roared. In slow motion, he felt his muscles coil and spring to life, jettisoning him from his place next to Darcy on the bed and into the other woman. He held her by her throat at slammed her against the bedroom wall, seething in rage that he was helpless to control. "Mick is MINE! Ain't no one taking him down but me!"

She stared at him with pity in her murky eyes and it made the beast in Spot's clothing snarl. She never let her gaze wander, holding eye contact with the feral person he'd become as he slammed her back again. She just watched cooly. The point of the dagger that she pressed into the meager flesh near his navel was cold and sharp, piercing easily through his thin shirt. The cold pain brought him back to the surface and he took a real breath for the first time since she arrived. "You are toeing a dangerous line, Spot," she croaked. "I'm dead no matter what you choose. Either you kill me or Mick comes and finds out that I stabbed his favorite new chew toy and kills me. But your friends don't have a chance without me. Can you live with yourself if he goes after Trout? Or if Marta ends up in Darcy's place? Can you live knowing that you couldn't overcome what Mick is doing to you to save them? I am not the one who will kill him, that's the only thing in this whole mess that I know for certain." His grip loosened and he stepped back, she wouldn't take his kill, his breath was ragged and labored as he fought back against the rage. He wasn't sure what it was that just happened, but he didn't like it at all.

All his life he'd felt that beast, that rage simmering below the surface and, for the most part had managed to control it. That control came at a price. He couldn't stand more than the briefest touch. The anger inside of him saw it as a threat, no matter how gentle or well intentioned. It felt like a thick blanket of cobwebs on his skin and his disgust at their want to pity such a horrible creature left the sticky remnants of their touch lingering on his senses long after he pulled away. He hated the feeling and he hated himself for it. "What did they say?" he mumbled quietly, wishing he had the balls to apologize, but knowing that he wouldn't. He was what he was and there was no excuse that would gloss over that.

"That they're coming, but that it all comes down to you making it to the end."

He took another step closer to her, fighting to keep himself present. "Tell me," he growled. "Tell me how they looked."

She smiled and it didn't look so rusty as her surprise at his question relaxed her face. "Kisser looks...like herself. Strong and wild, fierce." The dagger slipped into it's sheath in the top of her cane, it a quarter turn locking it into place before she leaned her weight on it again and winced. "I was worried that Mick's little stunt with Ted would hurt her chances, but I think it only made her stronger. Mick finally took too much."

He fidgeted and rubbed his ear on his shoulder, wishing he could make the screaming and yelling in his head stop. He shook his head and twitched, trying to stop it and she watched him curiously. "What about Trout?"

She tipped her head from side to side as she deliberated and he growled in his head that she knew more than she was willing to say. A small smile twitched in the corner of her thin mouth. "He's ready for this fight and understands what he has to do."

He couldn't take anymore. "Stop talking in riddles!" he roared. "Fucking tell me! What does he have to do?"

She smiled sadly and stepped warily around him, making her way towards Darcy. "The same thing he's always done, Spot. Pull you back from the brink." She sat on the edge of the bed and checked over Darcy's injuries, raising a dark eyebrow as she fingered the quilt the smaller girl was wrapped in, no doubt recognizing that it came from the other room. "Hopefully there's enough of the man who took this kind of care of Darcy left by then to be saved."

 _A/N: This is possibly my favorite chapter of the rewrite. I'm not sure what it is about Spot's mental decline that I like so much, but I do. It was very rocky last time...he went from fine to crazy with no transistion. I'm so pleased with how this turned out. Read and review please!_


	23. Chapter 23

It was a skill that Darcy honed out of necessity in the five years she'd been imprisoned in the brownstone. She could make her breath deep and even, force her muscles to go completely slack and her face serene, feigning sleep so convincingly that whoever was in her bed was either lulled to a similar, but real state of rest or would slip away instead of begging for more. With the other's, it was so she could go back to her solitary life and try to forget what they did to her, but with Spot, her relaxed body and slow heartbeat pressed tightly against him were the only things that seemed able to quiet the nightmare in his mind that was slowly seeping to full concentration and taking over both of their days.

The boy who snarkily accused her of trying to sneak a peek at his "family jewels" was gone. The only bits of him left were tired and quiet, already defeated, but she loved them. All that was left was the very last of his heart, the one that held her and cared for her when Mick was too rough and kissed her tenderly. Even those times were becoming fleeting. He paced the house like a tiger in the cage when it was just the two of them. He was never still. His shoulders, neck and head twitched and shook constantly. Even as he slept on top of her he flinched and grunted with the force of the shudders that wracked his body. When Mick came, when he shut himself in coat closets and cupboards and picked his skin until it bled. His legs, arms and hands looked like he'd been attacked, picked to bleeding and scabbed again. The scars would never go away but he would never let her clean or bandage the wounds, he needed to see them. As he laid on top of her in his bed, she looked at them and tsked her tongue before carefully extracting herself from underneath his weight to go find the antiseptic.

She wrapped a worn afghan around her bare body and tiptoed from the room to get dressed. She didn't walk through the house naked anymore. She was more than just a part of the menu for Mick's boys for the first time. The man sitting on her bed didn't escape her notice, he just didn't pique her interest nor pose a threat, so she went about her business hardly giving him a second glance. "You don't knock anymore?" she asked, dropping the afghan to the floor and strutting to the chest of drawers where her clothes were kept. She might not put herself on display for the men who thought of her as just an object to be used, but she would for him. He was the one man under Mick's thumb who wouldn't look, who would pointedly look away and feel shame for how she was. His pale cheeks flushed deeply as his watery, dull grey-green eyes dropped to his lap. No man wants to gaze at the whore his daughter became, especially when her fate was a direct result of his shortcomings.

"What are you playing at Darcy?" Rudy asked quietly as she pulled on undergarments over her bruised skin. "What are you doing in bed with him? I thought you wanted your freedom. That's why I had Niko get him, why I bought his friends some time having him kept here. To get you out, not so you could play kissy face with the bait. Mick is going down. You know that. You'll be free, but Spot is a goner."

She stopped what she was doing and turned to him in just her chemise and drawers, one stocking hanging from her hand and smirked. "I'm just doing what I was told, Pops. What you've all told me was my duty since you brought me to this place. 'Take care of the men, fix them up and make them feel better.' That's what you told me when you gave me to Mick! How else did you think this was going to end up? You locked a couple of kids in a house alone together!"

He looked at her steadily but warily, "This isn't part of our plan; you're playing with fire."

She narrowed her eyes, "Our plan? I never asked to be a part of this! Any of this! You brought him here and told me to take care of him and I did. This was never about me! Its about you and how bad you feel! He is the only one who cares about me! He takes care of me, Pops." He looked away and she stepped in closer opening her arms to showcase the ripe bruises that covered her, "Look at me! Mick does this to me every day! And Spot picks me up wherever he dumps me and cleans me up, covers me and watches over me. You've never done that, not since I was a little kid, but still, I did what you told me. I played nice, I nursed him back to health, I listened while he talked in his sleep and told Mick what I heard so he could create his perfect battlefield. I betrayed the only friend I've ever been allowed to have because you said it was the only way out! I did that for you! But what I did in there, and all the beatings in the last few weeks because I had nothing to tell Mick, that was for me."

He looked on, faded, jaded and tired, seeming to sag in front of her. "You can't love him, Darcy." His voice never raised above a defeated whisper.

His acceptance of their fates was a thorn in her heart, digging and driving her anger. He never once fought for her. He gave her over willingly. "Why? Because I'm a whore? Because I'm tainted and dirty?"

His hands smoothed down his vest as he stood and she watched his hands shake as he fought the urge to reach out for her. He wanted to embrace her, hold his little girl one last time, just in case everything went sideways that night, but he wouldn't. She was a tainted whore and it was his fault. He gave her away at twelve years old to save the rest of her family when Mick caught him planning to run. It was his guilt about her, not her, that drove his plans to get her out. Without Spot, she would be just as alone as she'd been before once the sun rose. "You know why. You know the end this was all headed for. Its time, Sweetheart. We have an hour to get him there." He gestured towards a box next to him on the bed. "Mick had that made special for you and wants you in it when we bring him." He often bought her pretty clothes, just to rip them off of her, but this was different. It was from one of the premier dress shops in Manhattan.

Her eyes widened, "I have to go?"

He nodded, "Like I said, you can't love him. Not today, Sweetheart." He reached out for her but she swatted his hand away.

"You don't get to call me that. Go wait downstairs." She opened the box and turned back the tissue, revealing the slippery, red silk. Her nose wrinkled as she pulled it out. A whore's dress, if ever she saw one, it was low cut and frivolously ornate, but she knew better than to disobey.

"Can you handle him on your own?"

Her eyes met her father's as she nodded curtly. "I'm the only one who can handle him." He stood slowly, looking so many years older than forty seven and left her to dress. The dress looked terrible on her but Mick didn't buy her to make her look pretty. He bought it to torture Spot. The color would eat her fair complexion alive, but she wasn't important. She knew that. In Mick's mind, she was the bait, the bull fighter's cape. So, he dressed her in red and was waiting to wave her in front of Spot's face while he stuck the addled boy with spears and set him loose on the other fighters.

It fit her perfectly, hugging her small curves in just the right ways. She pinned her fine hair up like Clarice showed her to and went to her armoire, opening the drawer that held his clothes, starched, ironed and folded carefully with his red suspenders laid gently over the top. She ran her fingers gently over the red webbing before pulling the stack out and carrying it down the hall, resting it on the washstand whose bowl she hadn't replaced since they knocked it off and broke it.

He was still asleep, twitching and and flinching with the sheet draped across his hips, just as he had been when he fell asleep. She wanted to let him sleep, let him live in a world where she was entirely his ally for a few more minutes, but she didn't have a few more minutes to give. Mick was waiting. "Spot," she called hoarsely from the door. "Spot, you need to get up now." His eyes flicked open, his pupils blown wide, swallowing the silver-blue of his irises almost entirely and she knew she was in trouble. There was nothing of the boy she cared for in those eyes. They were empty and lifeless like a wax statue's or a doll's. "Spot?" Her voice was soft and quaking and her stomach dropped as those eyes moved from staring listlessly ahead, to pointing at her. She stepped back defensively, but the sudden movement shot him to his feet and he was on her before she could breathe.

His long fingers wrapped easily around her throat, the tips nearly meeting at the nape of her neck. Try as she might, her clawing at his hand did nothing to loosen his grip. It was so tight that not so much as a squeak was able to escape her lungs. Her face grew hot and red as she stared pleadingly into his. It was devoid of any feeling though as he watched her eyes bulge and become blood shot, as her high heeled boots kicked at the floor and his shins. The life was draining out of her and she welcomed it, stopping her fight and raising her hand to caress his cheek. At least this way, she wouldn't have to see his face when he learned of the betrayal she was guilty of and she couldn't be used to further fuel his destruction. As her vision filled with black splotches, his nose turned, following her arm and the scent of her perfume. Somehow, the heady, sweet smell broke through the fog in his mind and the iron grip on her throat released, but the hand didn't leave. He held her, pressing her back against the wall as his head lolled on forward, dipping to breathe in more of her scent. "Spot?" she sputtered through a windpipe that was almost too swollen to draw in air or let sound out, her voice just a hoarse, rasping whisper. He groaned, pressing in further, to latch onto her collarbone and grind his hips against her's. "Spot, stop," she coughed, trying to push him away as he pulled her skin in between his teeth and sucked hard. She yelped and tried again to push him away, but her fight was useless. He was not in control of the body that was mauling her with misguided, unwanted attention. "It's time," she managed to choke out. "It's time, Spot. Time to fight. Time to take Mick down." He froze, his mouth still clamped onto her skin so fiercely that she was afraid he'd take a chunk out of her like a rabid dog and his hips still pressing heavily into her stomach.

"I can kill him?" he asked in a small, unsure voice, nothing like the deep masculine growls that had been rumbling through his chest only moments before. His mouth released her skin and his hand dropped, resting softly against her breast. Her throat was sore and tight, but she couldn't stop, not when she finally had his attention.

She threaded her hands up into his hair, tugging gently at the dark blonde strands until his head moved away from her body. "You have to." Her voice was quiet, calm and low. A hypnotic purr. "We're all of us goners if you don't and when you're done you won't have to share me anymore, not with anyone. We have to get you dressed and you have to go with Rudy to get to Mick."

He pulled back to look into his eyes, his pupils releasing their grip, allowing the blue of his irises to show again. "Tie me up before I hurt you. Before it gets loud again."

She had undressed a man thousands of times in her five years in the Brownstone, it was mechanical and feelingless. Darcy Reynolds never imagined that dressing one could possibly be so sensual until she tenderly did the buttons of Spot's black shirt and attached his red suspenders to his grey pants. He stood still and let her, his ticks and trembles momentarily quieted as he watched her dress him like a squire readying her knight for battle. He might never know how true that analogy was. When he was dressed, she stepped back to admire her handywork, amazed at the difference three weeks could make in a boy. His chest and shoulders strained against the buttons and seams of his shirt and his pants that were newly hemmed when he arrived were three inches too short. All the food she made sure was around all the time so that he had energy to fight had filled him out. A ghost of a smirk tugged at his finely drawn lips as he watched her appraisal. "Darce, quit oggling to goods and get some rope." He stepped forwards and dragged a gentle finger along the bruises on her throat, "Don't give me the chance to hurt you again. I can't stop it. I don't even know what I'm doing when it happens." She did as he asked, binding his wrists behind his back and leading him down the stairs to Rudy.

Despite all of the things Mick had done to him and his family, Rudy never looked as struck as he did when his faded eyes landed on her neck. "This is handling him?" he gritted.

She shrugged, "Things were a little dicey for a second there, but we're here now. That's what matter's ain't it?"

Rudy gruffly shoved a gag in his mouth and a sack over his head and shoved him out the door of the brownstone and into the back of a wagon. Darcy followed, climbing up in the seat next to her father. As Rudy snapped the reins to tell the horse to go, she saw the movement around the corner of the building. A little kid with blonde hair that stuck out stuck his pointer fingers into the sides of his mouth and whistled loudly, low high low high, and she smiled. Spot sat up in the wagon and mumbled something through the gag in his mouth. His friends were even better than Rudy estimated, they would be there, and they all stood a chance of seeing the light of the next day because of it.

They rattled along in the wagon and Darcy kept her eye moving between the boy following them on the rooftops and their cargo, knowing that one off kilter cobblestone, one pothole could send him into a rage that would put the whole city in danger. "Easy Spot," she murmured in that low, hypnotic voice as they turned down a street that took them deep into one of Red Hook's seediest corners.

The tenement building loomed ahead and she bit the insides of her cheeks until blood pooled under her tongue just to keep from crying as she prepared for the last few moments that he would ever trust her. Rudy stopped the horse and one of the younger Dockside men took hold of the reins. Spot's boots hit scuffed at the cobblestones and his head tipped to one side as he listened to the sounds of the neighborhood and felt the street underfoot. "This is it, Spot," she whispered while Rudy spoke quietly to the boy holding the horse. "Remember, when we get in there, he lies. He will say whatever he has to to make you do what he wants. He wants you to fight like an animal. Keep your head. Don't let him bait you. Think about what you know."

"Enough, Darcy," Rudy barked. "Both of you, upstairs."

She leaned in, placing a kiss on the bag, feeling the angular ridge of his jaw underneath. "I'm sorry," she whispered. "I'm so sorry."

Out of the evening cold and in the musty, stale air of the tenement, spot froze in the threshold. He fought against Rudy, his feet scraping the bare floors as he tried to get back out into the night. Mick would be pleased; it was just the sort of reaction he was hoping for when he chose the building after hearing her reports of what he talked about in his sleep. She stepped closer to him, raising her voice so that she could be heard over the grunts and scrapes. "You can fight back this time. You don't have to run and hide. Fight, Spot." Anger at the situation bloomed in her breast and she wanted to be the one who set the beast loose on the men who spent the last five years torturing her. "Make them pay for what they did. They hurt you. They hurt her. Make. Them. Pay." He stood rigid, poised and listening as she took the sack off his head. "He's waiting at the top. Get your revenge, Spot." His eyes were back to that terrifying mix of bloodshot white and endless black pupil and he plowed past her.

"I hope you know what you're doing," Rudy warned and took off after him.

She followed at a much more relaxed pace, arriving as Spot glared at Mick and growled, "Untie me."

Mick just smiled magnanimously. "Please, take a moment and enjoy the scene we've set just for you! We've been preparing for this for years. Scatter helped, then Trots and finally, my darling Darcy helped us out with making sure the details were all right these past few weeks." Those eyes turned on her and she regretted winding him up so far. He took a threatening step towards her, but two of the men grabbed him by his elbows and were barely able to hold him back. "Ah, ah, ah," Mick tsked, teasingly. "You really can't blame her for telling me your secrets. She was only doing what I told her too by getting close to you, though taking you to bed was a length I didn't think she'd go to. Bravo, Dearest. Excellent performance." He wrapped his hand around the back of her neck, squeezing it possessively until she cried out. "The rules are simple. There are eight floors in this building, and one of my boys on each one. Rudy will escort you to each new floor and keep watch. You have to defeat, meaning at least knock out if not kill the person on each floor to move on to the next. I will be on the ground floor. Make it past me, and you're free. Die and I send you home to the Poplar Street Lodging House in boxes for Kisser. You can also surrender to me and take your place as my new second in command. If you live through this night, you can do whatever you like with the whore." She flinched at the venom in his words. Her stomach curled as she wished she was a target on one of the floors. Spot deserved a crack at her. "Looks like he knows how you like to be treated in bed, Darcy," he purred, looking over the deep bruises that were still darkening on her skin. She was so ashamed, none of the others would look at her even though they had all taken advantage of her services if they were offered.

"Which floor will you be on, Doll?" Spot snarled at Darcy.

"Not this one, which is the only one you need to concern yourself with for now," Mick answered, gesturing grandly towards the first room. They waited until the door shut behind him and Mick's grip tightened. "I can think of only one way suitable to pass the time while we wait," he cooed dangerously in her ear. She cringed and hung her head, trudging back down the stairs she just climbed to the second floor where she knew he had a spot set up, steeling herself for the next few hours where her clothes would be ripped and her body abused for his amusement.


	24. Chapter 24

She sat with Trout at the tiny table in the corner of the Lodging House kitchen with her aching head in her hand, grimacing at each stutter, the constant repetition of sound grating on her fragile nerves. Half of her wanted to tackle him and hold her hand over his mouth so he would stop, but her kind heart couldn't discourage him from doing something he'd only just gotten brave enough to attempt. He was so damn stubborn and utterly convinced that he had to say something to Spot when the time came and she was the only one he trusted to listen as he struggled. He wanted her there, he wanted her help and all she wanted to do was gag the poor kid so he'd stop stuttering and leave her alone. "Mmmmmmmmar-ta?" he hummed.

Something, some thin wall keeping the flood of emotion in her head contained snapped and she jumped to her feet. "Stop! Just stop it and be quiet for a few minutes!" She pressed the heels of her hands to her temples and squeezed, countering the pressure that had been building in her skull for the past three weeks. "I can't even goddamn think with you in here yammering on!" His eyes and his whole posture darkened and hunched. She sucked air in through her nose and realized what she did, groaning as she released the air. "Oh, Trout. I...my big stupid mouth...I didn't mean that..." she stammered, but he wouldn't look up at her. "Why is it so important that you say it? You've never talked before..."

He pulled his notepad from his back pocket and slammed it down onto the scoured table top, pressing so hard into the paper with his nub of pencil that the words were etched in. _He hears me when I speak. Can't brush me off._ His eyes flicked to the side and he let out a heavy sigh as he picked up the pencil again. _It's worked before. He gets messed up, I talk, he listens and settles down._ He shrugged and rubbed anxiously at the back of his neck and she wrapped her arms around herself. She should have known. He always had a knack for knowing what to do with Spot when he was out of control, even when they were just small boys. She plopped back into the chair and nodded her head, but he didn't start again. He sat, picking at the the worn table top and drumming his fingers and she waited with him. Because she owed him that much. Just as he seemed to get himself back to where he might be able to do something again, the back door slammed open as Race and Mush tumbled into the kitchen, tripping over one another.

"Kiss!" Mush yelped. "Its time!" Calmly, she stood from her seat, nodding at Mush to go on. "Haystack is following the wagon they took him in. He's gonna find where they's taking him and meet you back at a butcher shop by the Fox." Trout stood and shuffled up behind her.

She smiled, forcing her face into something it didn't want to do. "You've done good, Kid. You helped a lot with this whole Dockside thing and put up with Trout's um…" She turned to the boy at her side who was blushing and glowering hotly, with a sad grin, "negotiating tactics like a champ. I really appreciate it." Mush smiled and headed up the stairs. Marta excused herself to her room, and changed into her old newsie clothes. She weaved her hair into a tight braid down her back and she took a deep breath as she pulled her coat and hat on. Nips and Race watched her expectantly, awaiting orders. Her stomach turned as she realized that was her. It didn't matter how many times a day she came to the realization, it never ceased to shock her, just like it never did back then. "Where did Trout go?"

Nips frowned, "He took off. Said he had something to take care of and that he'd meet us in Red Hook."

She scowled, wondering what could be so important after he spent the morning torturing her. "Then I guess we head out without him." She moved towards the door but paused and turned back to the two of them. "If I tell you to get out of there, you three run like hell. Grab Spot and run like the devil is at your heels. That man is evil and I don't want him getting his claws into any of you. So, if I say run, you cheese it like the bulls are after you, you got me?" They looked between one another and nodded reluctantly.

"What are you gonna do when we all run outta there?" Nips asked quietly.

She smiled tightly. "If I say run, you run. You don't worry about me. You run." He narrowed his eyes at her and she shook her head in return. "Don't argue with me. If I say run, you four are going to fucking run. Run and don't look back. Take care of each other like you always have and get back here safely."

"Yes ma'am" they answered, taken aback by her swearing. Kisser cursing wasn't rare by any means, but she had a few words she used regularly and "fuck" just wasn't one of them.

"Good, now let's get going. We don't want to keep them waiting." Her smile was both brilliant and terrifying as she shoved them out the door into the cold sunshine.

They hurried their way towards Red Hook and the Fox's Lair to the butcher shop. Haystack wasn't there yet, but there was no telling how far he had to follow the wagon before he could scope the new location out as well to let them know what they were up against. Even with all he had to see and remember, it wasn't long before they heard the long low note and then one that swept up from low to high, letting them know he was there with news for them and saw him waving them up onto the roof of a nearby building with Trout at his side. "He's at a tenement about six blocks from here. It's condemned so its empty but the place is crawling with goons. All of the windows that you could get to from the fire escapes are nailed shut on the inside and Mick has guys posted at all of the doors, on the fire escapes and one on the roof. There's a few of them on every floor except the very top because it's too dangerous up there. Mick is waiting with the blonde girl on the second floor and anyone who isn't upstairs is on the ground floor looking out for us. Spot has to fight his way down to the street."

"Where is Clarice?" Kisser asked.

"She's the sixth floor, but Rudy, the second in command, is in the hallway. He has to call out to Mick each time Spot clears a room. Spot just started when I ran." Stack paused, looking uncomfortable. "He didn't look good, Kiss. He looked kinda crazy."

"That bastard," she grunted, her voice thick with tears as the pieces of Mick's plan fit together in her head. She shuffled the pieces of information in her head like tarot cards, the old with the new, hoping that she could deal them out and make sense of them before Spot's time ran out.

"K-k-k-its," Trout called, pulling her away from her mental tarot deck. He spread a paper out in front of her, showing her a detailed mapping of the tenement and surrounding buildings. It was thorough and well drawn, just like the one he drew her to show her where the Brownstone was in relation to the tavern. He and Haystack both made notes, Stack's more hurried and younger handwriting looking distinctly different from Trout's very uniform and controlled script.

"You drew this?" she asked, staring up at him in wide eyed wonder.

He nodded and pointed at Haystack, "He t-t-t-te...tell mmmmme."

That only made her eyes grow wider. "You drew that just now from what Stack saw at the building?" Again he nodded, cocking an eyebrow in a silent question at her. "What else are you hiding from me in that head of yours?" she mused, reaching out to push his wild hair back. He shoved her hand away, blushing and tapped the paper. As usual for him, he didn't like the attention being on himself. She obliged him for once and looked down at the drawing, drinking in all the information and the cards started to fall into the right place.

"We need enough of a diversion to get into the building, but not one that will alert any of the other Dockside Boys, especially Mick, that we are there," Nips said.

"Then I guess its good that us Manhattan boys don't follow orders like good little Brookies," Mush called cheekily as he hauled himself up onto the roof. Itey, Boots and a few of the older Brooklyn boys, Red, Lonny and Mook followed suite, grinning sheepishly. "We can throw them off while you get in!"

Race cracked a grin. "It's true, it's why we don't really bother with the whole leader business. We all know that ain't none of us gonna listen anyways!" He and Mush shook hands, while all of the Brooklynites looked guiltily towards Marta.

She bristled, her eyes blazing at their insubordination. Her jaw was set and squared and her lips pressed into a thin, pale line, but Trout grabbed her hand, slipping a scrap of paper in it. _Let us help. You're not alone this time._ She stared at the handwriting, the last words knocking the wind out of her every time her eyes fell on them. She lifted her gaze to his face, her eyes defensive, scared and trying to hold back tears of shame. 'Please _,'_ he signed and she drew in a shaking breath, swallowing back the bile that was rising in her throat and burning the back of her tongue.

Her voice was hoarse and tight when she spoke, "If we all make it out of this, you seven are in for a good soaking."

Nips grinned, "You got it, Kiss, now whats the plan?"

She spread Trout's diagram out on the rooftop and they all crouched around it. "Where he's placed his boys shows that he knows Spot and I and how we operate well. He expects us to try to take the fire escapes or use our numbers to storm the front door. I'd bet the first two floors are crawling with Dockside boys, maybe even some borrowed thugs from other allied gangs. He's expecting us, but he thinks he's covered our only ways to get in."

"So we need onto the roof," Nips continued, pointing out how the building to the left was close enough to building hop. "Stack, is there access to building once we're on the roof, or does that put us back at the fire escape?"

Haystack thought for a moment before his face lit up, "The roofs rotten, full of unofficial access points. I heard the guys say that they were glad they didn't get chosen for roof duty because they didn't want to be the one who fell through. Your problem will be making a controlled entrance into the building. I'm pretty sure we'd be boned if you all fell through the roof onto the lower floor."

Trout looked over to Race with his bright eyes glowing mischievously. "What?" Race asked. Trout nodded his head to Mush, and Race stared blankly at his curly haired friend for a moment before a similar grin spread over his face. "You brilliant bastard, Trout, its perfect!"

Mush seemed to catch on to what they were hinting at and began shaking his head vehemently. "Nuh-uh, no way Race. I ain't doing that again. I got locked up for two weeks!"

"Keep ya shirt on, none of the GANG MEMBERS is gonna call da bulls on you and Trout's right, its a perfect diversion!"

"Care to enlighten the rest of us, Higgins?" Marta asked boredly.

He grinned, "So me and Mush, Blink, Jack, Trout and Spot is all at this dance and Blink and me is flirting with these girls, beautiful girls, my gal was a redhead with these green eyes and Blink's had dark hair, big brown eyes, skin so perfect and pretty that…" Trout rolled his eyes as Race's glazed over and went hazy and he smacked his friend in the gut to pull I'm out of his hormone hazed memory. "Right! Right, so Blink says something to this dame and she starts screaming and slapping and pushes Blink into this big ass, drunk guy…"

"The abbreviated version, Racetrack or Spot will be either dead or fully initiated into Dockside before you manage to make a point," Marta pressed, her patience with him running dangerously thin.

"Long story short, we was surrounded and then Mush jumps up on the bar, yanks his pants down and slaps his own ass. All those Bozos was so shocked at Mushy's brown ass hanging out for the world to see that we was able to get outta there."

"Yeah," Mush deadpanned, "it was really great going to the refuge for two weeks for you guys so you could flirt with a girl just to never talk to her again."

"How does this help us?" Marta asked, she was irritated now. They were wasting precious moments on this asinine story.

"Mush is gonna bare his cheeks again and Red, Mook and Lonny will knock the lookout out with marbles from their slingshots while he's busy staring," Race answered as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.

She looked between Trout and Racetrack a few times gobsmacked by the idiocy. "Mush's ass is your genius plan?"

"You got something better, Sweetheart?" No one missed the flinch as he realized how close his big mouth was getting him to seeing what her trademark left jab felt like.

He was saved by Mush's quiet voice. "Why don't you just shoot pebbles to bring the guy to the edge, then bean him with a marble while Trout jumps over. He can knock the guy out while the others jump," Mush suggested. "My ass never sees any action, just the way I like it."

"Thank you, Mush, for coming up with a plan that isn't completely moronic. Lets hope the the goon on the roof is as stupid as Racetrack so we can get past him easily." Marta rolled her eyes and began giving orders to her shooters.

Trout looked at Race, grinning triumphantly and signed 'She likes you.'

Race scowled and gave Trout a shove while he blushed a deep fuchsia, "Shut up, Trout, it was your idea first." Trout stifled a laugh at his pouting friends expense.

With their plans made and everyone clear on what their job was once they reached the building, they climbed down the ladder. Marta and Trout held back until they were the last ones on the roof. "You know that plan was absolutely idiotic, right?" she asked wondering why he would feed the memory to Race and let him propose it as his own idea. He answered her with a wicked grin that she returned wryly as realization dawned on her. "But it made Race talk to you and got him back for giving you the cold shoulder for the past few days all at the same time?"

'Two birds,' Trout signed.

She paused again, studying him, seeing how much straighter he stood these past few days, how often he smiled, how he signed more frequently and without looking down when he did it. There was a confidence about him that never was there before unless he was at Spot's flank. It was all his own. "Did you know we'd end up doing what Mush said?" He quirked an eyebrow at her and smirked and she could almost hear his voice, full and clear, thinking _Wouldn't you like to know?_ "Spot and I have rubbed off on you over the years, kid. You're an evil genius in disguise." He chuckled but held her back when she went to climb down. The smile and joking demeanor falling away from his broad, still boyish face and concern filled his bright blue eyes. "What is it, Kid?" she asked quietly.

He looked down for a moment and sucked his bottom lip as he prepared himself mentally to speak. "C-c-c-c-c-cay-ful."

She flew at him, wrapping her arms around his large frame and squeezing him tightly. At first he stiffened, but then relaxed into it. "You be careful, too," she murmured, "and take care of those idiots down there. You're the only one I trust to keep a cool head."

He shoved her away, dragging a sleeve under his nose and she stifled a quiet chuckle at what a big softy he was underneath all of his size and anger and fight. 'See you at home?' he asked his simple signs.

She laughed out loud, but it was sad and gritty, bitter even. "That's how you want to play this? 'See you at home,' like you're going to sell and I'm going to the market?" He nodded, but his face was sad and his eyes wavered with desperation. The bitterness dropped from her smile and her shoulders sagged. "We aren't losing each other, Trout. You and me and Spot will be back together at the Lodging House tonight. I WILL see you there, you got me?" She stared into his eyes, challenging him to say or even think otherwise. He nodded and sniffed again, squaring his shoulders and turning to climb down the ladder so that they could follow Haystack to the decaying tenement building.

They swiftly made their way through the streets, using every shortcut they knew, and climbed up to the roof of the building next to the one crawling with big, greasy, and non-too-pleased looking Dockside gang members. They slithered across the rooftop on their bellies, discarding their coats and hats in a corner. The cold air prickled their skin, but they were kept warm by the anticipation boiling in their guts. On the other neighboring rooftop Red, Lonny and Mook were doing the same, finding the best places to line up their shots. Haystack and the extra Manhattanites were with Marta and her crew, but would wait on the roof for a call for help. Marta raised her hands to her mouth, cupped like she held something between them, and blew between her thumbs. An airy, sad, mourning dove call came out, signaling to the shooters that they were ready. Trout crouched, ready to run and make the leap.

They heard the pebbles skip across the roof, and the heavy footfalls of the guard moving away from them. As soon as he heard the " _oof!"_ of the marble hitting its mark, Trout took off running, easily breaching the gap and rolling over his shoulder and somersaulting to his feet on the other side. The guard was up and holding his eye while blood oozed out between his fingers, but Trout didn't hesitate to sink a punch into his gut or shove his knee into his forehead, knocking him out. He stayed low and waited, listening carefully for any sign that the guys posted lower on the fire escapes heard the scuffle. Another bird call signaled the all clear for him and he made his way slowly back towards them, feeling how spongey and week the roof was under his hands and knees. There was a spot that seemed firm right where he landed and he waved them over.

"You first, Kiss," Nips whispered, patting her gently on the back. She ran and leapt over, landing, non too gracefully in a heap on the wet roofing tiles. Nips and Race jumped over, neither one landing half so well as Trout, and then crawled around until they found a hole big enough for them to drop down into the building though.

"The floor below is rotten too, so we'll have to swing over to the dry part, but its our best bet," he said as they joined him. "Let's get in quick before anyone else falls through. I don't trust this shithole to hold all four of us at once for long. As if the building was agreeing with him, the wet boards underneath them gave a threatening groan.

They lowered Race down through the hole by his wrists and swung him over onto the dry, less rotten part of the tenth floor below and then did the same for Marta. Nips and Trout laid a board over the hole and each lowered themselves onto it like a trapeze bar before swinging down next to the others. After a quick check of the stairs they made their way down the two stories and watched Rudy pace the long hallway from behind silently. The corridor was dark and dank despite the bright sunlight out the window at the end of the hall, but it smelled of decay and mildew. The walls were yellowed with age and tobacco smoke. Marta shivered as she thought about what Mick could come up with using this place as a starting point. She could hear the grunts and faint smacks of skin hitting skin and wondered which apartment Spot was in, whether he would still be himself when he came out of that next door, or whether he would be an empty vessel for Mick to abuse as he pleased. They all ducked when Rudy turned and paused, staring at the stairwell. No one dared to breathe until they heard uneven footsteps approaching. "Kisser," Clarice called in a harsh whisper. "Come on, get a move on!" Marta peered over side and down at Clarice's expectant face, but didn't answer except to flick her eyes to Rudy. "He's with us, who do you think told me you were up there? Now, get down here so I can get your boys where they need to be!" Marta glared at her and shook her head, not wanting to risk Mick coming out and seeing her. Everything about this felt wrong, not like what they discussed at the tavern at all and she didn't like the deviation. Clarice huffed and slowly started to climb to them. "There. Happy?" she snarled with no color left in her cheeks once she got to them.

"No," Marta snapped. "This isn't what we talked about, Clarice! You never said a damn thing about Rudy!"

Clarice rolled her brown eyes, exasperated. "Who knows Mick better than Rudy? Huh? No one. No one wants him gone more than Rudy either. Mick has crossed a line with him and he's wanted out for awhile, but the stakes were too high.

Clarice sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose and taking swig out of the flask. "This isn't just getting you out of the basement, Dollface. It's so much bigger than you, now. Rudy wants him dead, I want him burned until there's nothing left for the devil collect and most of the gang would turn and jump on him if they thought there was a snowball's chance in hell of making it out alive."

"All I want is my boys safe. For good." Marta wrapped her arms around her middle. "All I want is for this to be over." She realized as she sat drinking and planning with Clarice at the tavern in the Bronx, back when they thought this would be like her gauntlet and that getting Spot out of a few fights would help him out, how many years it had been since she lived without fear of Mick coming back for Spot or any of the boys, how long since she dreamed of anything for herself.

"And that can't happen unless he's dead and buried in such a spectacular way that none of his half-wit followers think its wise to pick where he left off. You can't do this alone. Trust me, trust me and Rudy."

"How can you expect me to trust you? You've hardly been forthcoming!" She stamped her foot like an angry child, forgetting herself and the precarious positions she was in at the moment.

Clarice's whole demeanor darkened and fifteen years of being around no one but thugs and hoodlums reared it's ugly head. She took a move from Marta's own arsenal and stepped into her ally as she spoke, invading Marta's personal space and making her uncomfortable. "Because out of forty people in that basement that night, who helped you? Me and Rudy. Who calmed you down, talked to you, got you in the right mind to keep going? Me. Who lost a fucking leg for moving a bottle of whiskey a half of an inch? Me! Who's daughter's are in danger because he let you go? Rudy. If there is anyone in this world you can trust, Toots, its me and Rudy. I didn't do none of this for my health and well being. I'm doing this because you are here and you are ready and you are the only person I've met since I've been around these assholes who has a flicker of a chance of taking him down." Clarice waited for her to look back up and tapped her chin with her cane when she didn't. Marta glowered at her like a child, but she could feel the beginnings of surrender breaking through the stubborn wall in her gut. "Now, are you ready to listen and let me help my way or are you really so intent on doing your own thing, even if it means letting Mick strip your boy down until he is nothing but his demons?" She felt Trout's hand fall on one shoulder and Nips' on the other and grimaced. She didn't like it, but Clarice was right. They knew Mick in ways that she didn't want to.

"Ok," she whispered. "Do what you gotta do."

Clarice nodded and turned her keen gaze onto the boys. "You three are each going to a different floor. Trout, you take the fifth, Jolly Giant, you take the fourth, and the Meatball goes to the third." She stared hard at Trout." You remember what I told you?" He nodded and she mimicked the action. "He...he ain't right. Mick's been in there everyday just to mess him up. They had to hog tie him to get him here. It's up to you to find him...the real him underneath it all. It's up to you to put him down if there's nothing left." Marta looked at Trout as he swallowed thickly and flicked his eyes to meet hers. She tried to smile but her face fought back against it. Her head nodded and he took a deep breath and nodded back. "The fighters in those apartments should already be down, since I offered them a little pre-fight drink." The Madame took her little silver flask back out and gave it a dainty slosh as her face contorted into a malicious grin, "Some men just can't hold their opium." The paper boys all looked between each other, wondering what they had gotten themselves into. "When you get in there, tie 'em up and gag them in case they come to before the party is over." The way she spoke so casually about drugging Mick's men made them all uncomfortable in a place where they were already stretched so far out of their elements. "You three get a move on, I need to keep Kisser another minute." Race turned to follow Clarice's orders and Nips took a step back, but still kept his eyes on his leader. Trout held his ground, glaring at the brunette.

She smirked right back. "Still don't trust me huh?" The burly, black haired boy shook his head vehemently and Clarice's smirk changed to a look of guarded admiration. "Maybe that's for the best, but it don't change what's ahead of all of us."

"Go," Marta whispered, her arms wrapping around her middle, "just remember what I said. If I say the word, you three book it and take Spot even if you have to club him and lock him in a broom closet until I get back. You run back to the Lodging House." She turned to Trout, "You follow orders and I WILL see you back there tonight." He nodded and hesitantly retreated down the stairs with the other two at his heels.

Clarice waited for the last door to shut down below before she turned her attention back to Marta, suddenly looking weary and even a bit meek. "You're not going to like this, but Rudy and I know Mick better than you. This isn't going to work unless he thinks he's winning."

"What do you mean?" Marta asked warily as Clarice pulled out a length of rope from under her skirt. It was knotted in a figure eight and the loops of the eight could be tightened or made loose with a slip of the tail.

"We're capturing you and taking you to Mick."

Marta stared at the woman she'd only met three times but for some reason trusted her life to, waiting for her to smear that cocky smirk back across her face and claim to be joking. But she didn't. She was serious and held out the rope shackles to Marta. "Real inspiring talk about trusting you, nice to know it was all bullshit."

"Not a bit of it was bullshit, Love, and you damn well know it." She placed her hand on Marta's elbow and looked her in the eye, her warm brown eyes pleading with the former newsgirl to give up some control and cooperate. Marta couldn't argue with their history and nodded. "We're not not going to let anything happen to you. You saw what we see now, even back then. There is nothing else in a room when you are in it with him. You saw the weakness and used it. You took your victory and you need to do it again. The difference is that this time, you have more than a sixteen year old whore on your side. You are his weakness, use it to take him down." She slipped the bindings over Marta's wrists and tightened them, concealing the tail within the knot and tied a handkerchief around her mouth before escorting her down the stairs and into Rudy's charge. Rudy and Clarice shared a long look that Marta didn't understand before Clarice handed Rudy her flask and slipped through the door of the apartment where the sounds of an ongoing fight were coming from. He glanced her way once she was in, and though he tried to mask it, he couldn't hide the worry in his watery green eyes. Marta could feel the sadness washing over him as he led her down the six flights of stairs and knocked on the closed.

"Boss, I found this snooping around on the fourth floor and saw Clarice sneaking in with Lou and the kid as I came up the stairs." He managed to hide the waver in his voice, or Mick was too distracted by Marta's presence in the room to notice. His golden eyes glowed lustily and Marta's stomach dropped as she realized that she was in over her head. Again. She'd willingly delivered herself to him. Again. And he could win. Again.


	25. Chapter 25

There was kerosene running through Spot's veins and Mick's words dropped a lit match on him. It burned him and everything he knew about himself from the inside out until he was unrecognizable. He couldn't see clearly, couldn't think beyond the guttural roars ripping through his conscience. Niko was ready for him, already charging. The Greek was nearly double his weight and had two to three inches in height over him. He hit like a train at full speed, but Spot relished the impact. It jarred oxygen back into his body, fueling the fire that Mick and Darcy set. He needed it. He needed bloody knuckles and broken bones, jabbing elbows and slamming knees. Every hit he took, every stab of pain and flash of light behind his eyes made him feel more alive. He needed impact and fought for the sake of fighting, not caring that he needed to conserve energy for the other fights he was supposed to win. It wasn't about winning anymore. It was about power and anger and betrayal. It was about how he needed to hurt. He needed the pain of others to keep him going. Niko wasn't up to the challenge and when the opportunity presented itself, the beast in Spot's clothes put him out of his misery.

Niko backed up for a second charge, Spot's icy eyes watching closely as he ran. It was like a game of chicken, except that Niko wasn't going to stop until he hit something and Spot knew it. He stood still, watching the Greek advance on him, jumping back but leaving his foot out at the last possible moment. Niko went headlong onto the wall and didn't get up. His dark eyes were open but unseeing. Spot stared at him, waiting for him to get up, moan, blink, anything, but the he just laid still and stared blankly at the ceiling. Spot needed more. A beastial roar ripped out of him before he spat in that unseeing face and pounded down the stairs to the next floor, not even casting Rudy a glance as he passed. "Clear!" Rudy bellowed so that Mick would hear him.

The next guy guy sat on a wooden barrel pulled up to a discarded crate and artfully shuffled a deck of playing cards. If he weren't out of his mind with rage, Spot might have recognized Chapman as a bookie that Race dealt with from time to time, or as a kid who ran a shell game in the marketplace when he was younger, but Spot only saw a target; a target that needed to be destroyed. The bookie barely put up a fight. He stepped away from his makeshift table and tucked his cards into his pocket and stood there, letting Spot's blows rain down on him until he lost consciousness. He barely even blocked. The less he fought back the more angry Spot got. Didn't this guy understand that he needed a fight, not a punching bag? He gave an angry kick to the groaning lump of a person and barreled out of the room and back into the stairwell. "Clear!" Rudy shouted again.

He barreled onto the next floor, searching the apartments there by kicking in the doors, the hollow crashes of the locks and door frames breaking reverberating through his body. Finally, he found the occupied one. "Long time no see, Conlon," a rough voice greeted, cutting through the fog. He hadn't seen Trots in almost four years. He was bigger than Spot remembered with had a scar that ran down from his temple to his cheek that wasn't there when he was a newsie. His brown hair was slicked back and his brown eyes glared cooly at Spot. "I can't believe you chose this, Kid. Mick knew you would, but I thought you'd be smarter than that, see the benefit of coming quietly. You could be great here, the leader you were always supposed to be, the one Kiss trained you to be." He said her name and Spot snapped.

"Don't talk about her like you know her!" he yelled as he lashed out and attacked shoving Trots as hard as he could. "No one knows her!" The hits came hard and fast, punctuated by his yelling. He blocked an uppercut and dug an elbow in between Trots' ribs. Trots slammed him against the wall and Spot slammed his forehead into his nose. "They all lie!" Trots was starting to look afraid. Spot wasn't known for being soft and cuddly, but the person he was stuck in this room with was barely human. He always admired the fact that Spot never backed down from anything, that he was fearless and ferocious, but this was different. He could see in Spot's cold silvery eyes that the person in front of him would break his neck without a smidge of remorse. "You sold me out!" Trots stumbled and slide across the rotting floorboards and Spot kept coming at him. In a moment of desperation, Trots pulled a knife from his boot and held it out to keep the blue eyed animal away from him just long enough that he could breathe. But as little regard as Spot had for anyone else's life, he didn't really care about his own either. The knife didn't scare him, didn't slow him down or stall him in the slightest. "You let him do this to me!" He jumped on top of Trots and didn't relent.

"Spot! You know me! I didn't do this, Mick did! You did! You agreed to it! Get off of me!" The knife skidded across the floor and the two young men grappled on the floor, one trying to kill the other, the other just trying to get back up off of the floor. They rolled and tumbled, punched and kicked. The cold touch of the blade, flat under the skin of his arm caught Trots' attention and he grabbed it and flung it out, the tip dragging across the smooth skin of Spot's forehead, down onto his cheek, narrowly missing his eye. The cold flash of pain pulled a hiss from Spot's lips, but didn't slow him. He could barely see through the blood dripping off his brow, but he managed to wrench the knife out of his old leader's hand before bashing his head into the floor until he stopped fighting. He hastily wiped the blood from his eye as if it was nothing more than sweat, tucked the knife away in his boot and exited the apartment.

Maybe it was the shock from the cut on his head, maybe it was the fatigue from the other three fights catching up to him, but the next fight seemed to be over before it was even begun. The puny kid wasn't any older than him. The loss of blood made his head spin and he found himself thinking that Mick really did need him if these punks were all he had on hand willing to take him on. He could have those bums whipped into shape, feared and revered in no time. He'd done it before and he'd do it again. His boys were proof of that. Trout and Nips, Red, Mook, any of them could handle this easily. He put his hand to his forehead as he stomped back out into the stairway, his skin slick with blood. Rudy stopped him on one of the landings, yanking his head back to get a better look and hushed his snarl with a sharp glare. "That needs to be stitched and bandaged," he muttered.

"Fuck it." Spot growled. "I'm dead anyway." He ran his soaked sleeve over his face again and continued down to the next floor where and older guy with greasy, pomade slicked hair stood and looked at him boredly. This was just a job for him, just another day of duty to Mick. Spot closed the door as the sound of a woman screaming shattered the silence in the corridor, sending zings of electricity down his spine. The monster he could feel himself becoming relished them, hoped it was Darcy and that Mick was giving her exactly what she deserved. But Spot, the person Kisser raised, cringed. The conflict in his head and the blood burning his eye and pooling in the curve of his lip distracted him and let Lou get a hit in on him. Finally the adrenaline was running out, the rage was letting go and his body felt tired. For the first time, it was hard to get up. A shuffle outside the door caught his attention. Clarice slipped in the door. Her dress was well made but low cut and her soft brown hair was piled up in a messy pompadour on top of her head. "Back off Lou," she growled in a voice ripe with distaste and street drawl as she advanced on him. "Can't you see the kid is cut?"

The oily man sneered. "This ain't your fight, whore. Get back to your apartment."

She took the cane in both hands, separating the gilded head from the shaft to reveal a beautiful dagger. Spot, still crouching on the floor, watched the events unfold, trying to decipher them. "I rank higher than you, ya spineless, mangy old dog." With that, she jammed the knife into his neck and shoved him to the ground. Spot watched him bleed with wide eyes. He'd seen many things in his young life, things that no human should have to see, but he'd never seen blood leave another person like that, not that fast, like it was being pumped out of a faucet. He scrambled to his feet, but kept low and ready, staring at her bum leg, hoping to take it out should she come after him. She calmly wiped her blade on her petty coat and put it back in its sheath in the shaft of her cane before looking his way and smiling in a worn way. His muscled body was tightly coiled, ready to pounce the moment she made a wrong move. "Kiss sent me to help you, remember?" her voice was soft and soothing, as if she suddenly realized that she was closed in a room with a wild animal. "She's here, just downstairs, but you have to finish here first." The screaming continued, and it started to grate on him, making him feel like he had to get out of his own skin. It was horrible. "Don't listen to that Spot," she ordered, but still looked frightened when he turned his attention back to her. "If you let that get to you, he wins. He's playing games with you, just like he has been for the past few weeks, torturing that poor girl in front of you. Ya getting too close and he's trying to get you back under control. Don't let him into your head. You have to get past Rudy and Mick, and then you can go home. Your friends cleared the apartments between here and Rudy." She pulled a handkerchief from her pocket and held it out to him. "But you can't bleed to death before you get there."

"Why should I listen to you, huh?" he yelled, swatting her hand away. "You's in Mick's pocket, same as Darcy! I thought she was on my side too, but she was feeding Mick dirt on me the whole time! She ain't no poor girl! She's a lying, two faced snake!"

"Darcy is on no one's side. She is a victim here and you know it. You've seen what he does to her, and he's been doing that for five years. There is nothing left of who she was. She don't know where he ends and she begins. She's served her purpose now, and she's losing her cushy place at the house in the morning. Mick had me get her a room ready this morning."

"I don't believe you!" he growled. "Darcy's not the victim and Marta's not here! She's not!" Suddenly that energy, that rage was in control again and he rushed her, tackling her to the floor and pinning her there. He pulled Trots' knife from his boot and held it to her throat while blood from Lou soaked into his pants and her hair from the floor and drops feel from his brow onto her unflinching face. She stared back up at him so knowing and serene that it gave him a moment of pause. There was nothing he could do that would scare, surprise or intimidate her. Mick had already done it all.

"This is exactly how Mick had her at her gauntlet at the Fox's Lair." She spoke despite the blade pressed to her skin, not flinching in the slightest as the contraction of her muscles dug the edge into her flesh, leaving small cuts and knicks. Her blood and his mixed with the puddle they sat in. The smell was heavy and hot, metallic. It filled his mouth and nose as he breathed, making his stomach do uneasy sommersaults. "He half choked the life out of her, and then pinned her to the floor, just like you've got me. You could step into those boots so quickly and easily kid; he's right about that. You've got what it takes to be his perfect heir. The question is: do you have what it takes to fight that? Do you have it in you to fight that part of you like she did? He wanted her from the first time he saw her bossing Ted around in the streets. They way she had all of your attention, the way she wielded that power so that most didn't even know that she had it, but would die for her just the same. He loved the way she mouthed off and never once let any of you boys get the boost on her. He couldn't help himself; he loves power too much to not go after someone who uses it as naturally as she does. She would have been great as his right hand if he didn't get so greedy. If he had offered it to her the way he did to you, she might have taken it, but he promised to break her instead and she refused to let him. Are you going to just give in so easily and let him crack and mold you into a twisted version of himself? That doesn't sound like the man Kisser thinks you are."

"I ain't like him," he snarled.

"Then who are you like? Because right now you look like him. You don't look anything like the boy who has taken such kind care of Darcy." He snarled at the very mention of her name, but Clarice kept going. "Tending to her wounds and holding her while she cried because he hurt her. Do you know why he hurt her so badly?" He snorted, the beast just wanted to rip the tiny blonde to shreds still, but that tiny sliver of humanity needed to know. "Because she stopped talking, refused to tell him what he wanted to know. She was repaying your kindness even if you never knew it. I told her to just give in and tell Mick, that he'd kill her before it did her any good, but she wouldn't listen."

His grip loosened. He didn't let her go, but he gave her jugular and extra quarter of an inch of space away from the knife and moved his knees from her wrists, shifting to more gently pin her arms with his shins. "What did you say?"

"She's loyal to you, not Mick."

Whatever Mick did to him, the spell it cast was breaking, but before he could act with his slowly clearing brain the door swung open and slammed against the wall. Mick stood, staring both down at them with clenched fists. "I thought we had an understanding after the last time, Clarice. I thought you were smart enough to learn your lesson and not double cross me again," Mick's voice said from the door. Spot scowled up at him, but Mick's eyes didn't leave Clarice's. "Show him your little souvenir from the last time you decided to question your loyalty," he ordered. She suddenly, after all the time of being nonplussed through Spot's attack and tirade, looked pale and sick. She nudged the inside of his leg with hers and he slid off of her onto the floor, finally taking the care to put pressure on his cut head. She raised her skirt slowly, revealing a wooden calf coming out of her polished boot. "If a little kick to a whiskey bottle got you that lovely trophy, I wonder what I should come up with for killing Lou and giving the challenger a pep talk."

"The difference is," she croaked, shuffling her skirt back down, "that I don't have anything left to lose. You've already taken everything Mick. You can't keep me obedient anymore."

He smirked. "Kill her, Spot."

The boy glared, he didn't know what was right and what was wrong, or who was loyal to who, but he knew himself. "No."

"You've already gotten out of two floors, you're not getting away without defeating her too," Mick snarled. "Kill her and move on. You'd have to take her out in F anyway, do it NOW."

Spot raised up to his knees, "I ain't one of your goons and I ain't killing someone who helped me."

Mick smiled eagerly, "Kill her Spot, or I kill Kisser." Rudy came in behind him holding a bound and gagged Marta. Her eyes were wild as she fought against Rudy with every ounce of strength in her.

Spot swallowed hard, his throat dry and sticky as he looked down at Clarice, pleading her with his eyes to do something, to somehow help him get out of this. "Its ok," she whispered. "The only good thing I ever did was help you two. Put me out of my misery and save her. You're saving me form living for another minute under him." He shook his head. He was many things but a killer wasn't one of them. "My only way out is right here," she murmured, wrapping her hand over his on the bone handle of Trots' knife. Her grip tightened, and plunged the blade into her own ribs, dragging his hand along for the ride. Marta shrieked and tried to bolt forward, but Rudy held her tight. Clarice smiled up at him with tears in her eyes. "Thank you," she grunted, before turning a cold glare up to Mick. "There, he's done it. Now send him on, you sick bastard. He's going to take you down. Ya through." She grabbed Spot's pant leg and gave a sputtering cough. "Burn him to the fucking ground, kid. Take Darcy and run." He stared at her, at the puddle of blood growing around them, the smell nearly suffocating now, and watched her light go out. Mick left with a bemused chuckle, while Rudy tried to keep a hold of Marta, who was shrieking into her gag and throwing her body around. He knew how she felt. His body stood still, but him, the real him, was fighting that same battle in his head. He couldn't lose. If he lost, they both would stay bound and gagged for good.


	26. Chapter 26

The window at the back of the apartment Trout hid in had a crack like a spiderweb through it. Out in the hall, there was a shriek and then the door handle rattled. He hardly recognized the person who stumbled in. Between the blood pouring down his face and the blank look in his silver eyes there was almost nothing recognizable about Spot Conlon. All the fight was gone. He shut the door with a backwards kick of his foot and just stood trying to mop up the blood out of his eye with the sleeve of his shirt as he swayed on his feet, muttering "She said she was going to help me." He looked right at Trout, but obviously didn't see him.

Trout stepped forward and a creak in the floorboard snapped Spot to attention. The empty look was gone and the one that replaced it made Trout's blood freeze in his veins. He knew that look. It wasn't the first time he'd been sent in to deal with him when he was like this. This Spot fed the reputation, made people nervous. "S-S-Spot," he stammered quietly, hoping above hope that his words could startle his friend out of the frenzied state..

"Oh, you's gonna talk now?" Spot taunted, smearing the blood on his face with the sodden sleeve of his shirt. "You gonna be someone different than you always was too?" Trout couldn't reply besides throwing him an incredulous look and took another tentative step forward, but Spot jumped back, pointing his long bony finger at his friend. "Don't you fucking touch me, ya goddamn retard. You ain't here to help me!" In any other situation at any other moment of his life, Trout's fists would already be flying. He had soaked people for lesser tags like crazy, idiot and dummy, but this time he just took a slow breath in, rolled his shoulders and glared at Spot. The crazed state that Mick had been pushing him towards was still in control and that Spot was goading him to fill whatever hole was inside of him with pain, because pain was better than the emptiness he felt when he was like this. He turned his back on Spot, hoping this stupid move wasn't his last. Spot shoved and punched at his back and neck. He had to brace his hands against the wall, but he refused to react. "You stupid son of a bitch! Hit me!" Spot yelled. "Fight me you goddamn coward!"

"No."

Spot pushed him hard. "Come on!" he sounded desperate as the choke in his voice grew audible. Trout's unwillingness allowed him to think more. "God damnit, Trout, hit me," his voice broke. Trout pursed his lips and started whistling "All Through the Night," the lullaby that Kisser used to sing in the bunk room when they were boys. Just like when they were boys, the fight left him for a moment and Trout could watch over his shoulder as every joint in Spot's body sagged and relaxed. The blank stare returned but then the agitated version pushed back through and he jumped back to attention. "I ain't seven! You can't just sing me to sleep!"

Trout sighed and turned. He knew the plan; he knew what Clarice told him to do when she met with them. He'd practiced the words for hours with Marta, but he still dreaded it. "Fight you," he said. "F-fight Mick."

"I ain't like Mick!" Spot roared and attacked his best friend with a fervor and ferocity like Trout had never seen. Spot was swift and, despite being thin, hit hard, his bones drilling deep into his flesh like dulled knives. Normally, he was calculating and watchful, but this time, Spot was wild, throwing his fists and elbows as hard and fast as he could. Trout could hardly keep up. As his fists flew, his mouth ran, pouring out the things that were making his mind race. "You ain't Kisser! Marta ain't even Kisser!" Trout pushed him away, trying to block as much as he could. "Kisser's dead! She died that night at the Fox's Lair and we was all too stupid to see it! That fraud that Mick's got is just an empty shell that looks like her!"

That stopped Trout in his tracks and gave Spot a momentary advantage. He drove Trout back and slammed him into the window with the spiderweb crack. His thick skull hit the glass and stars lit up behind his eyelids. With the second slam, the already compromised glass gave way. Spot kept pushing and Trout only saved himself from an eight story fall by hooking his knees on the window frame. Spot wrapped his hand in Trout's suspender strap and stared down at him, emotionless and empty. He grabbed onto Spot's narrow wrist, "Up!" he grunted. When Spot didn't move, just stared, looking through him instead of at him he yelled, "Spot! Up!" in a panic. He couldn't yell for Nips for fear of bringing Mick's attention to their presence. He clawed at Spot's arm, desperate to bring him back. "Spot! Fight!" Spot's eyes refocused just a bit, but instead of pulling his oldest friend to safety, he started laughing. Trout could feel the button holding his suspenders to his pants start to give. Coming from a kid who normally didn't laugh beyond a snort or snicker at someone else's expense, the loud laughter was terrifying, as terrifying as the drop that Trout could feel was going to end him. There was glass digging into the backs of his legs, but that pain hardly even registered. He heard the pop of his button, but was yanked forward at the same moment. Nips threw Spot to the floor and steadied Trout on his feet.

Spot clamored back to standing, still laughing hysterically and Trout couldn't take it. He pulled his fist back and drove it deep into Spot's stomach, hoping the lack of air would stop the maniacal laughter. While Spot was still doubled over, gasping for breath, Trout let fly another sledge hammer blow to Spot's temple that knocked the smaller boy to the ground. He lay on the floor groaning for a minute while Nips grabbed hold of Trout's arm to stop any further hits. Spot sat up and pressed his hand to his head. "Nips," he groaned, "Be a pal and lend me your shirt. Mine's fucking wet and I'm starting to think it ain't so lucky since this is the third time I've ended up bleeding and locked up wearing it." He unbuttoned his navy blue shirt, his favorite shirt that was new to him the night of the strike rally, that he always thought looked so smart, and pressed the only dry place he could find on it to his forehead.

Nips glared hotly, his brown eyes molten. "That really you, Spot?" he asked. "Because I ain't giving the guy who just held my buddy out of a window a goddamned thing."

"Yeah," Spot answered quietly. "It's me. I can't promise I won't do shit like that again, but for now its me. This place…and Mick. They's messing with my head. Trout," he mumbled, resting his aching head on his palm, "Do that thing you was doing before." Still seething, still wanting answers for what Spot meant about Marta, Trout glared back at him and slammed his fist into his other palm, but Spot shook his head. "Not that, before that, the whistling thing. I fucking hate it, but it clears my head." He shot Trout a look that seemed sharp and pointed, but Trout could see the plea in it. He growled in the back of his throat and flipped Spot off as he limped away. There was blood wetting his socks and pooling in the heels of his boots from the deep gouges of the window glass. "Trout," Spot called, his voice thick and rough. Trout whirled around pointing at the window accusingly. "Yeah, I know, but I pulled you back up."

"Laughing like a looney," Nips muttered under his breath. Trout pointed at Nips to say 'what he said.' Then the hurt over being called not only stupid, but retarded took over and he glowered at his friend. They never glorified those words with hand gestures. They never talked about them, it was just an unspoken rule that no one called Trout crazy or stupid unless they wanted to see the business end of his fist and eventually end up dealing with Spot. "Oh shit, Spot, you didn't really, didja?" Nips asked, recognizing that particular look on Trout's face. Spot looked at the floor and Nips whistled long and low as he unbuttoned his shirt. "I'ma go check on Race, you two get yourselves sorted."

"How the hell did you get in here anyway, why's Race here?" Spot asked.

"To help, of course! He's still trying to break up the floors. They had an ambush planned for you here, Spot. You got too close, Mick must be nervous." Nips left and Trout limped over to the broken window and rested his head against the frame.

"Shit, youse bleeding, Trout," Spot said.

"Uh-huh," he answered.

"Geez, I leave for two weeks and you turn into a chatterbox." Trout flipped him off again over his shoulder. "C'mere, lemme see your leg." He sighed and walked back over to where Spot sat on the floor looking drained. "Ain't much we can do about it now, but it needs bandaging." Trout pointed at Spot's face and gestured for him to hand him the shirt. He ripped off the sleeve off and wrapped it around Spot's head. "Trot's got spooked and pulled a knife on me," Spot said, answering the question that he knew Trout would ask if he could. Trout pulled a face at him and he snorted. "I know, you told me before. I'm fucking scary when…that happens." He paused and took a shaking breath, ripping off the other sleeve and tying it around Trout's thigh. "Trout," he said with a break in his voice. Trout looked down as Spot made Trout's gesture for 'I'm sorry.' In all of the times he'd been the one to pull Spot down out of the rafters, Spot never thanked him or apologized for the things he said. Trout nodded in thanks. They were silent as they bandaged what they could with what was left of Spot's shirt while Trout continued to go through what Spot screamed at him. "Whatcha got rolling around up there, Trout? You's trying to figure something out."

'Where's Kisser?' he asked with hand signs.

Spot looked up, his skin pale and his eyes weary. "Mick has her. I dunno how. He don't know you's here, right?" Trout yanked him to his feet and waved him through the bedroom and shoved him towards the hole in the floor that led down to Nips.

"Everything ok, boys?" Nips asked, looking pointedly at Trout. He nodded, brushing away the concern.

"What's Kisser's plan?" Spot asked, his voice soft with exhaustion but still biting.

"Ain't you the plan man, Boss?" Nips asked.

Spot grimaced and shook his head. "Not this time. If it was good enough for her, then its good enough for me. She's counting on you to be where youse supposed to be, especially with Clarice gone."

"Where's Clarice?" Nips asked.

"She gave herself up to save Marta," he answered firmly, letting them know that the subject was closed for discussion. "Now what's the plan. We gotta get outta this place."

"So far as we knew, we were here to help take down some of your fighters, and then make sure the rest of em don't get any wise ideas about rebuilding the ranks once we're gone. Clarice, then the three on these floors, leaving you Rudy and Mick. Clarice swore up and down to Kiss that Rudy was with us. But if she's captured and Clarice is dead, I guess he double crossed them, poor broads." Nips' sandy eyebrows pinched together as he spoke.

"No," Trout said, suddenly jittering as he understood what was going on. He paced and dug his hands into his black hair as he worked out all of the events of the day. He pulled out his paper and began scribbling furiously. _Rudy was always with Kiss. She said he let her win. Rudy is still with us, we still have a chance._

Spot read what he wrote and nodded. "He's right, if Rudy double crossed Clarice, he would have outed you three, too. Clarice was part of the plan. Tell me what you know Trout." Spot half sat, half collapsed on the floor and leaned back against the wall while Trout went back to writing out everything he heard through the door about Marta's gauntlet. Spot read it with a nod and a sigh. "I hate this fucking place. I let him make me think…."

"He's good at that. I warned you," Darcy's voice cut him off. Trout looked up warily. She was so battered that she was hardly recognizable as the girl he met in the street. "I warned you about everything as best I could." She stood in the doorway, her face newly bruised, her blouse gone, in just her lace trimmed chemise and her purple skirt. The skirt was ripped and rumpled and the delicate skin visible above the lace or her chemise was marred with deep, angry bite marks.

Spot glared up at her. "What are you doing here? Here to take more dirt to Mick?"

She rolled her eyes. "Marta sent me to stitch up your face and give you boys new orders. She's on the roof getting the other's ready. I have to fix you up and go rally the boys loyal to my dad that are downstairs."

Spot looked warily to Trout. He didn't trust his judgement where she was concerned. In all honesty he wasn't sure whether he could trust his own eyes and ears at that moment. Trout furrowed his brow and signed "go on." She pulled a needle and thread and the flask of whiskey that Clarice had shown them when she told them about the thugs she drugged. Trout grabbed her arm before she could offer it to Spot. "Don't worry, the opium was in the glasses, not here. Otherwise she would have dosed herself too. She didn't do all this alone you know. Most of Dockside would give their left nut to get rid of Mick, they's just too chicken shit to actually do nothing about it." Darcy set to work stitching up Spot's face and told them what Marta needed from them.


	27. Chapter 27

Rudy shoved her away from the flat where Clarice lay dying and into his apartment, "Get a grip, Marta!" he hissed with a pointed glare and slammed the door behind her. She screamed against the gag in her mouth and threw her body against the door over and over until the shock and horror over what she saw was overtaken by overwhelming sadness and she slid down the door and buried her face in her upper arms, crying hysterically. Spot was broken inside, even more than he was before and there was no telling if he could be saved even if they got him out. Clarice, her closest ally in this, was dead. It was a tantrum that would rival that of most small children.

A metallic clank and a kick at her shoe pulled her attention out of the tempest of confusion in her head. The blonde girl in front of her had bruises on her face and a split lip. The telltale sign of being Mick's conquest covered her chest and Marta could still feel the ache of those bruises even after all the years since they faded. He liked to bite deep and hard, just to the safe side of breaking the skin and the ones on the girls alabaster skin were the same deep purple as her skirt. "You done throwing your little shit fit?" the girl asked in a voice that would be sweet if it weren't for the vein of bitterness that she long since stopped trying to hide. Her face was pointy and sharp, but not unpleasing. "I must say, I expected something a bit more impressive with the way everyone around here talks about you. I expected the Queen of Brooklyn…" Marta was off the ground with the bindings on her wrists pulled tightly against the tiny blonde's throat before she could utter a squeak of protest. She laughed hoarsely. "That's more like it. That looks more like the girl who is going to take Mick down. Now, lemme go so I can untie you." Marta hesitantly did as she was asked and the tiny blond loosened the ropes around her wrists and untied the handkerchief around her mouth.

"So, you're Darcy. The 'underwear girl' I've heard so much about." She said once she turned back around and took another look at the girl, she couldn't help the raise of her eyebrow.

Darcy's face only flushed for a moment before she twisted it into a haughty scowl. "I sure am, and you don't like Mick's little pet name for you."

"I sure don't," Marta mocked darkly, rubbing her wrists. "Never have, never will." She watched the little blonde carefully, unsure of whether of not to trust her. "Never thought Mick's personal mistress would be helping me take him down."

"You ever think to ask how he got his personal mistress?" Darcy asked icily.

Marta's hands raised to her hips, not liking this pipsqueak of a rat-faced girl sassing her. "I never thought to ask many things about Donovan Mickelson. I figured charming, beautiful and a few aces short of a deck covered him pretty well."

"Add manipulative and abusive in there are you've got him pretty well pegged," Darcy agreed, trying not to smile. She was actually almost pretty when she smiled, when all the weight of Mick's crimes against her lifted. "He stole me from my mother when my father tried to leave Dockside. If Pop tries to leave, Mick threatens to kill me and take one of my three little sisters to replace me with. If I do anything he don't like, he threatens to kill my father and put all of my sisters to work at the Fox. My pop and I want him gone, out of our lives for good." For such a tiny thing, she stood tall and seemed to grow a few inches when she spoke about her sisters.

"Three sisters, four little girls," Marta mused, absently pulling her braid over her shoulder. She met eyes with Darcy, "You're Rudy's daughter. You're the reason he let me win."

Darcy nodded resolutely, her lip pouting out bit as her jaw clenched. "I sure am, and I'm helping. You don't get to say no." Marta drew a sharp breath in at the statement, but Darcy paid her no mind and kept talking, rattling on nervously. "Spot thinks I'm a traitor…and maybe I am, but I did it for my sisters. I have to keep them away from Mick and I have to prove to Spot that I'm not what he thinks I am."

Marta sighed, she was no stranger to lovestruck little girls chasing after Spot. HIs arrogance and his power brought them knocking at the lodging house door in droves, but he wasn't much of one for friendships, let alone relationships, because that would mean he had to let them in, and he didn't let people outside of her, Trout and Nips in very often. "Good luck with that, Kid," she sighed. "Spot isn't much for second chances, but I am. So long as you and I want the same things, you're ok in my book."

"I want my sisters to not know the things that I do about men," she said in a shaking voice. "I don't ever want them to be afraid of being touched or wonder what they will tell their man if they ever fall in love." Her face hardened again even though tears shown in her eyes. "My sisters are not toys to be broken."

Marta stared deep in to her light, watercolor eyes, searching for any sign of a lie or betrayal before reaching out for the girl's hand, noticing the small flinch as their skin touched. "Good enough for me, Sweets." She noticed the gas can at Darcy's feet. "What's that for?"

"Dusk is falling; they can't fight in the dark. Mick has lamps in all of the apartments. So what's the plan, what do I do?"

"Brooklyn's at its best flying by the seat of its pants, with the element of surprise…" Marta's eyes got big as the way out, the way out for all of them, came crashing into her head with resounding ferocity. "Oh, holy shit…Can you get more of that?"

"More kerosene? No, probably not. Its not like the others wouldn't notice me sending out for more lamp oil. No one's supposed to leave the building until Mick or my pop says so. What are you thinking?"

"You said it and Clarice said it. We're burning Dockside to the ground." She pulled her hair over her shoulder and fiddled with it as she worked out the details in her head. "I'll send some of my lookouts to the Fox and the brownstone, but we need someone to light the fire here and douse the place without getting caught by Mick's guys."

Darcy grinned. "Oh, I can root out some boys loyal to my dad willing to douse the place and drop a cigarette butt or two. I can also get the fire escape guard changed to guys that will make sure we get out."

"Go let let my boys know whats going on. Send Nips downstairs and have him put on the fire escape. He's good at looking like he belongs wherever he is. Send Racetrack to wait on the street for the rooftop boys. Lord knows, he can talk, maybe he can talk his way into getting us more lamp oil without paying for it. Keep Trout with Spot." She took a deep breath, thinking about the feral person she saw in that apartment, smeared with blood and dead eyed. "You be careful around him, he would attack me or Trout in the state he's in and he knows you wronged him. Only go near him if Trout lets you. Trout will keep Spot moving in the right direction until he settles out. Then get downstairs and rally the good apples, they need to keep the bad ones in line and drop the cigarette when Rudy calls the clear from the last of the boys apartments; when its Rudy's turn."

"Spot…is he?"

"No," Marta answered flatly. "He's so far from all right. Mick got to him so he's not…" She couldn't finish the sentence, because she didn't know how to explain it. He wasn't himself didn't even begin to explain what she saw in that flat. "And someone cut him, his face looks like a filleted mackerel."

Darcy ran to the corner to an old carpet bag and filled the pockets of her once fine purple skirt with a familiar flask, a spool of thread and a packet of needles. At Marta's questioning look, she blushed, "I'm not just Mick's girl," she said the word with disdain, "I'm also the one who puts the Dockside boys back together when they need it. Thats how I know everything. Boys don't change as they get older; when they fall and scrape their knees, they want a mama there to kiss their booboos. You give them a shot of whiskey and patch them up and they'll tell you just about anything." Marta couldn't help but be impressed. She watched as Darcy's haughty expression softened. "I know these boys better than anyone, and most of them are good guys, guys like your Ted, who for one stupid reason or another got stuck here. Once you get here, Mick don't let go so easy. They just want to be free."

She nodded and Darcy shot her a tight smile before tentatively opening the door and looking for Rudy. He waved them out. "Be quick, he's going to want to see you before Spot gets to me. He wants you properly subdued when the kid gets to my floor, because he'll watch my fight…and you will too," he whispered as Darcy slipped into the door across the hall.

Marta's hackles were up, every hair on her neck and arms stood on end. "Oh, I'll show him what I look like 'properly subdued' all right," she growled and sprinted up the stairs until she was standing where she and the boys landed when they dropped in through the hole in the roof. She again put her cupped hands to her mouth and blew a mourning dove's call and waited for the thud of Haystack landing on the rooftop and crawling over to her. "Stack, I need you boys, all of you up here and any birds you can round up along the way, to gather kerosene and matches. I need some here, delivered to Nips, he'll be on the fire escape soon, and then some to the Fox and the Brownstone. We're having us a Dockside bonfire tonight, my friend" she whispered loudly, but with a grin. Stack grinned back at her. "Wait for the fire escape guard to change, then meet Racetrack in the alley. Split the boys up and take down those buildings, you got it?"

"Got it Kiss! I bet Mush's girl at the Fox will help us too!" She laughed under her breath at that, of course Mush found a girl. Haystack starts to head back to the edge, but came back suddenly, his young face worried. "How is he?"

"He'll be better the sooner we get him out of here. Focus on the mission Stack." He nodded and put on a face too business-like and grown for an eleven year old. He was so light that falling through the roof wasn't even a concern for him as he ran and easily made the hop to the other rooftop to spread the word. She booked it back down the stairs and into Rudy's apartment and got her shackles and gag put back in place to wait for her audience with Mick.

The second clear from Rudy made her heart sink and he opened the door. "It's time," he said quietly. She nodded and stood, waiting for the two people she least wanted to face enter the apartment.

Spot entered first. He looked tired, bowed and broken, but much more himself than the last time she saw him. He looked at her wearily and she was surprised to find herself looking up a bit to meet his eyes. With nothing but her eyes, she begged him not to watch what Mick would do to her. His brow furrowed and his head dipped lower. "Don't do this, Kisser," he said, his voice so low that it was little more than a vibration rumbling through the quiet room. She shrugged her shoulders, she had no choice. She had to keep Mick thinking he had her to use as leverage. "Marta, don't let him…" She covered his mouth with her hands and shook her head, but he shoved them away, that desperate look returning. "I ain't Scat, I don't need you to do this." She falteringly reached for him again and for once, he didn't duck away. He let her fingers brush down his cheek lightly. _Look away_ , she gestured with the signs Trout made up and followed it with _I'm sorry_. He looked away from her, stewing in his head, but couldn't say anything else to her. Below them, in Mick's apartment, came the screams and thuds that both Spot and Rudy were heartbreakingly familiar with. Marta looked between the two men, their faces mirroring the feeling of shame and helplessness.

Finally Rudy pulled himself out of his thoughts, "Better get going on this, Kid. When he's done with…that, he'll expect us to be mid fight." Marta flew at him, slamming her hands into his face, screaming against the fabric in her mouth. She pushed his chest and plunked down on the floor, so angry that a man who would ensure the freedom of some orphan he'd never seen before but would allow his own daughter to be brutalized under his nose for years. "There ya go, Spot, she gave ya a head start," she heard him say, his voice thin with defeat. She had to take her own advice and look away, she couldn't watch them fight. Instead she thought of Racetrack dropping off a gas can that he nicked from a nearby tenements superintendent's closet. And Mush gathering the girls from the upstairs rooms at the Fox and having them help him set the place on fire. She imagined, even though the girl's pathetic cries didn't let her believe it, that Darcy was helping Stack stake down the Brownstone where she'd been held for five years. She was invested enough in her daydreams that she didn't hear the screams stop and the door of the apartment slamming against the wall made her jump.

Mick looked Spot over with a magnanimous sneer, "You just get prettier every time I see you, Spot. I'm not sure which I prefer, the bloody wild animal or the hastily pieced together monster. What do you think, your Highness. Surely the Queen of Brooklyn has an opinion on the subject." Marta glared at him from her seat on the floor, refusing to give him what he wanted and mumble through the gag. He chuckled darkly. "Nothing to say, Pet? Oh, I do like you this way, I should have thought of silencing you ten years ago, perhaps we would have gotten on better, instead of being kept apart all this time." Before she could move, he scooped her up and sat her on his lap, winding her braid around his hand to force her to watch Rudy and Spot. With every hit Rudy landed Spot was sinking deeper into madness and becoming the animal she saw when Clarice died. "Isn't it beautiful? What Ching him live up to his full potential?" he whispered, enthralled by the chilling sight of one of the only people she trusted being stripped of his humanity and lost in the wilds of his own mind. Anger welled in her breast and her elbow rammed into his gut tipping them both over the back of the crate they sat on. He easily flipped her underneath him and pinned her to the floor and laughed at her attempt heartily. He waved to Rudy to get on with it as he leaned forward smelling her skin and breathing out lustily. She closed her eyes, she couldn't let herself focus on the abusive affection being paid to her neck and shoulder, the biting, tearing, sucking and groaning just below her ear. It was hard not to sink into the panicked memories of her past, to not find herself back in the basement of The Fox. His probing fingers and groping hands weren't any more gentle than his lips and she was glad for the gag because any squeak would take Spot's attention off of Rudy and turn that fury inside of him on them both. But one bite went past her threshold to contain, she felt the tickle of blood ooze down her neck and let out a yelp. Spot was off of Rudy and onto Mick in a heart beat. Mick was ready though, it was exactly what he'd wanted. He threw the teen across the room and shoved Marta to the floor, pulled a knife from his boot, slamming it into her braid, pinning her by her hair to the floor.. "You'll get your chance with me, Boy. Touch me again before then, and she's gone," he bellowed, showing the full monster he could be. This was the person that beat Niko to a pulp at her gauntlet. The similarites, the multifaceted nature of the two men in the room gutted her. He really couldn't have picked a better protege.

In the tussle, the gag slid down and she was able to shimmy it over her chin. She had to act before there was yet another repeat of history. "Mick," she purred. "Leave him. He's just a kid. Let them finish. You finish over here." Spot's eyes grew large and suddenly he looked seven. She tried not to look, but couldn't keep her eyes off of the boy, the monster, the man on the other side of the room as Mick looked down at her. He grinned greedily and dove back into her neck. She met eyes with Spot and mouthed, "RUN." She looked to the window raising her eyebrows. "GO," she mouthed, seeing Trout's eyes looking up over the ledge. She fell into making the illusion real for Mick, but where he was head over heels into the fantasy, she was listening to the shouts downstairs, smelling the first wisps of smoke. She watched Rudy slip out, watched Trout wave at Spot frantically through the window. She nodded at him, released him, and he staggered back slowly out of the room, walking like his boots were full of lead. She waited until they were alone, until she couldn't hear anyone moving on the eighth floor anymore to speak. To lift the illusion she had so carefully erected. "Your world is about to come crashing down around you," she purred seductively, not wanting to pull him out too violently.


	28. Chapter 28

At seventeen, when Spot Conlon remembered his mother he didn't see the wretch she was when she drew her last breath. As with most little boys, his mother was his whole world and he didn't see her flaws. Not even when she locked him in a cupboard while she entertained men to pay the rent, nor when she told him to play in the hallway outside the door. He loved her, though he'd already been hurt and watched her be hurt too many times to know what that should mean, but he hated that hallway. It was dark and dirty with only one grimy window at the end. The green carpet smelled like mildew and the plaster was crumbling from the walls and the ceilings. She only put him out there when he cried or picked his skin to bleeding from being in the cupboard too much. She knew the risk out there even when she walked wobbly and didn't talk right. She knew that her boy might be safer from the John in her bed, but in the hallway, Constantine could get to him. Constantine was so much worse than anything else the little boy had ever been up against. He was a monster.

He didn't have shoes because he'd outgrown his last pair weeks before and there was barely money to buy old bread. He sat with his back against the door, crumbling the piece of bread she gave him to keep him quiet at his feet, waiting for her to let him back in….if she remembered him at all. His eye never left the door to his left as the speckled bread fell on his bare feet; the one with the shiny brass plaque on it that let all of the tenants know that someone special, someone with power lived there.

The lock clicked and every muscle in his tiny body stiffened. He had no way out. If he went for the stairs or the front door, he had to pass the monster's door. There was nowhere on their floor to hide. His only chance was that dirty little window and the iron fire escape outside of it. He pumped his little legs, but the monster's boots were right behind him. The window was jammed, it wouldn't open and that big hand clamped down on his shoulder as he struggled. "Stan," his mother's groggy voice called, the panic clear even though she tried to play it coy. "Leave him alone. I got what you want right here."

Those words rang through his head, his mother's voice mixing with Marta's as Marta pulled Mick away from him. She told him to run, to hide, just like his mother did. But he couldn't, because he did when he was five and she died while he hid on the fire escape. Marta's hazel eyes pleaded with him; she wanted him to let her go, let her give herself up for him. Finally, Trout had to pull him out of the room and up the stairs. The fire was already lit on the bottom floor. The smoke was thick and heavy, muffling the shouts of the men. "No!" he cried, fighting against Trout's grip. "We can't leave her! The monster will kill her! We gotta stay!"

He fought frantically until Trout grabbed his face, nearly crushing Spot's sharp chin in his thick hand, glaring at him with stern cerulean eyes. "I ssssss'ay," Trout grunted, his voice gravely from all the use it had seen that day after so many years of silence as well as the thick smoke that was starting to rise up the stairwell. He pointed at himself with his free hand and then moved his hand between the two of them. "W-we sss…ssssss'ay." The crushing grip released and Trout made a gesture, one of the ones Spot didn't know, he'd refused to learn, but he got the gist of it. Together. They'd stay with her, together. He raised his eyebrows, wanted Spot to give him a sign that he understood. Spot nodded, but couldn't shake the feeling that if he left Marta even for a moment, he would come back to find what he found when he was five. Trout pointed to the nearest window. "Go. Ow…out." Spot froze. No. He couldn't watch from there. He couldn't watch her be ravaged and then watch the monster on top of her bash her head in. He wouldn't watch Marta end up that way, but Trout gave him a gentle push towards the open window. "Go."

Together they crouched under the window on the second floor. Spot started out at the dark city listening to the roar of the beast in his head while Trout kept an eye on Marta. Spot writhed and jittered, shaking his head to stop the noise. "Trout," he grunted, not even recognizing his own voice. "Trout, I gotta get outta here. I gotta. It's just like before. I can't do this." He started to scramble to his feet. He had to get away before he hurt his friend, his brother, again, but Trout grabbed his arm and pulled him back, pointing in the window. He didn't want to look and he fought, but Trout was ready for him, shoving a fist into his gut so hard that he retched and folded over. When he looked up, Trout was already climbing the stairs to the window they broke to get out and his need to save her won over his fear. In the room, Marta hadn't moved. Mick still sat astride her, but he wasn't hurting her or kissing her anymore. He was staring down at her in wide eyed confusion while she smirked up at him. Spot pressed his ear to the window to try to hear what she was taunting him with.

"Can't you feel it? Your little Tenement of Dreams is on fire, Mr Mickelson ." She grinned at him brilliantly. He looked up at the haze that was creeping up on them and ran to the stairwell and stared down at the flames licking up and the men already collapsed below, before very slowly returning to stand over her. "Rudy has the rest of them down in the street in case you try to run. They'll be waiting to take you out. I have your second, I have your mistress, I have your protege and I had your madame by my side until she sacrificed herself to make sure you thought you were winning. She was wrong about one thing though, I'm not your weakness. You are. I warned you about being a self righteous prick. You're nothing but a manipulative asshole who gets his jollies torturing other people. You bent me, I'll give you that, but I have and always have had people behind me pushing me back upright. Even I thought you won when you took Scat, when you turned him on me, but he was never the only one there. I have a family behind me, holding me up, which is exactly why I will win this. Because you have nothing." Her eyes flicked to the window and she smiled just a bit before returning to her prey. She was back. That was Kisser, that was the strong willed, never-say-die girl who raised him. "You were just bested by a housekeeper, a kid and a couple of whores and we set your whole world on fire. I have boys dousing the Fox and your house in kerosene as we speak. Your empire is dead and your reign over my city is over."

He dropped over her, straddling her again. "I don't lose," he said absently.

"There's a first time for everything, Toots."

"No." He turned his too light, golden eyes on her, and both she and Spot saw the same ferocity he turned in both Niko and Spot in her presence before. "If I'm going down, I'm having what I've waited ten years for."

She gave Spot one last long look, one sad smile before hardening her face. Her eyes a flat, dull, brassy tone instead of the warm golden green he was used to. "Then do it," she gritted out. She coughed heavily as smoke burned her nose and lungs and sweat beaded in her hairline as the heat under the floor continued to build. Mick shoved her chemise up as his hand slid down into her pants but a swish of red satin caught Spot's attention and cut off her cry of protest. Darcy's petite form moved out of the shadows in the corner of the room, Clarice's cane gripped tightly in her hands. The two women locked eyes and Marta gave a slight nod. Darcy was sooty and singed, her cheeks pink from the heat as she drew the cane back, brandishing it like a bat. It struck the back of Mick's head with a crack that Spot felt in his chest even through the buffer of the window glass and the man slumped forward as if all of his bones suddenly went soft. His head took a second blow as it smacked, forehead to forehead with Marta's. Both of them were so still and Darcy stood frozen, still holding the cane up, ready to administer another blow.

Trout ran in, but stopped short, staring at Darcy with his hands up submissively. He moved slowly, gently towards the tiny girl, keeping his blue eyes trained on hers until he could reach out and pull the cane away. He stood still for another minute, just standing there before she nodded and he moved towards Marta and Mick, easily pushing Mick's slack body off of Marta and checking on her. Spot still didn't move, not even after Trout gestured that she was ok, just knocked out. He couldn't move. He couldn't think. Who the hell was he? Spot Conlon didn't chicken out! Spot Conlon didn't watch from the balcony while others did what needed to be done. Was he ever going to be Spot Conlon, the real Spot Conlon again? The window glass suddenly shattered around him and Darcy was pulling on him, screaming at him, but he couldn't understand her. The roar was too loud. "Spot!" she yelled. "Help him!" He looked into the apartment and Mick was on top of Trout, a knife held to the dark haired boy's throat. Trout was pushing back with all of his might, holding the deranged gang boss back with nothing but brute strength. Spot stared at them, and then looked to Darcy again, terrified that she was going to unleash that monster in his head again. Her green eyes were mournfully grey. "It will never end unless you do," she said. "As long as he's alive, he'll never let us go."

"Wait for me," he murmured. Her transparent eyebrows furrowed. "When it's done, wait for me. Take me out if…if it ain't me standing here when its over." She nodded, understanding the care in his words. He couldn't hurt her again. He didn't want to hurt any of them and he wasn't sure he had the strength to fight his way back to the surface again. "Club me like you done him if you gotta, Darce." At her nod, he stepped through the broken window and picked Clarice's cane up from the floor, giving it the quarter turn that unlatched the blade. The handle was heavy in his hand, and he smirked. Leave it to that crafty bird to weight the handle so it packed a harder punch. He flipped it around in his hand and watched, biding his time while Trout grappled on the floor. He had the knife now, but instead of using it on Mick, he seemed to just be trying to scare him away, just defending himself. It took everything in Spot to hold his ground, to not try to take Trout out for attempting to take the kill he'd earned, but the beast was also sure that Trout wouldn't make it against Mick. He was too soft, too sappy and too weak. So he waited until Mick had him pinned and was just about to strike before he jumped in, grabbing Mick by his sleek silver streaked hair and with one deft flick under his handsome chin, ended the tyrant's rule.

Spot would have stopped there; he wanted to, but the monster that now lived inside of him couldn't rest. Mick needed to pay. The next thing he knew, the knife was dropping to the floor next to him and Trout's big boots kicked it away from him. He raised his eyes, feeling like his body was full of lead, like every drop of blood in him suddenly weighed too much. Trout was humming and watching him with a look on his face that Spot had never seen before. His best friend was afraid of him, and when he dragged his eyes around the room he saw why. Mick was hardly recognizable, and the smoke was almost too thick to see through. Marta was still unconscious, her beautiful curls shorn short and ragged by the knife that Mick drove into her braid. "Trout?" Spot grunted, unsure of how long it had been since he stepped through the window, but couldn't get more than that out through the smoke in his lungs. Trout coughed and knelt down, pulling Marta over his shoulder. "Where's Darcy?" Spot yelled over the roar of the approaching flames. Trout nodded his head towards the window. Darcy stood on the street, her torn red skirt and pale skin standing out against the darkness. Spot went out the window first and tried to take Marta so that Trout could get out more easily, but Trout glared at him and pulled her away, insisting on doing it himself.

He didn't let Spot near her when they got to the street, or when he set her down, safely out of the way of the fire brigade. He stood watch over her, making sure that Spot couldn't get close. Finally, Spot took the hint and sat down with his back against the bricks of a neighboring building and closed his eyes. His best friend, who was he kidding, his only friend, didn't trust him. Not now that he saw what was inside of him. Through years of those moments where he wasn't in control, Trout stayed by him, but he'd gone too far. Spot was alone, and maybe that was better. The ash from the burning building fell on them like snow, but, instead of the woolen grey blanket of snow clouds, the sky boiled, a molten brown and orange, moving and rolling over the top of them. Spot wished for a clear night, with a velvety winter sky to stare at. His head pounded listening to it all. "Hey, boys, her eyes are open," Darcy's bittersweet voice yelped.

She slowly rolled herself up to sitting, grimacing at the pain in her head. Her face was black and blue. She looked nothing like herself and could hardly see through the swelling in her eyes, but she gave them both a rueful grin as she croaked, "I'm pretty sure I told you to run."

He stood and moved closer, but still stayed back enough for Trout. Trout earned his respect. "Yeah, well, you always said I was better at giving orders than taking them," he sassed with a pained smirk, wincing against the stitches.

She looked at Trout, "What's your excuse?"

He answered with a wry grin and she couldn't help but laugh until she noticed that his palms were stained with blood. Her hand shot out and grabbed his.

"What happened Trout?" she demanded in a rasping, frantic whisper. He looked sharply away, his face paling as he looked everywhere but at Spot.

"Darcy hit him with Clarice's cane," Spot answered, his voice soft and tired, "and he knocked skulls with you." He watched Trout carefully, they both did, as he sucked into himself and away from them. "Trout was trying to get the knife Mick had your hair pinned down with out of the floor without cutting your hair off when he came to." He didn't even realized he'd been watching so closely, but once he got talking every detail came pouring out, from the moment Marta started taunting Mick until the knife hit the floor. He watched it play out in his mind like a sick moving picture show, one that no one would ever pay to see.

"My hair?" She reached for her braid and found her hair cut off and hanging above her shoulders. Her breath drew in sharply while Trout looked at his shoes, his blue eyes unable to meet hers. He reached into his pocket and pulled out her braid and held it out to her. She took the shiny rope and stroked it, fingering the jute tie at the end. She smiled sadly at it, her lip trembling. "Thank you, she whispered.

Spot choked back the strange tightness in his throat, like he was choking and suffocating all at once. "I dunno I just snapped." His voice cracked and Trout hustled to the end of the alleyway where he emptied the meager contents of his stomach. "He just pulled Mick offa you after….after I…..". Suddenly, he felt sick too. For as long as he'd been the leader, there had been rumors about him, some of them he started himself just to grow the reputation that kept his boys on the top of the heap. The rumors all talked about how ruthless and dangerous he was, but never once had he been accused of killing anyone. Now, he was an all new, truly terrible kind of infamous. Spot Conlon was a killer, a murderer.

Marta's voice drew him away from those terrible thoughts. "But he's dead? Really dead?" she asked shakily.

"Really dead, and so are most of the guys who would try to keep the gang going," Darcy wheezed quietly as she stood. "We's free, Marta, really free." Marta's eyes were burning again, she couldn't seem to get her emotions under control. Darcy smiled as she watched the older girl struggle for composure. "I'm gonna go find my pops." Spot watched her walk away, hoping she would come back. He didn't often feel like he needed other people. He didn't often feel like he even liked other people, but at least one of the people he liked and needed wanted nothing to do with him, and he wasn't so sure that Marta would pick him over Trout if it came to that. He wouldn't pick him, not after what he did. Darcy understood better than either of them what Mick put him through, just how far from himself he was. If Darcy was going to leave him in the cold too, then there wasn't any point in sticking around. Marta chuckled softly, a look of amused wonder on her face.

"So thats what it takes to get your attention?" she asked, smiling through her sniffles, grateful for the distraction. "A bad attitude, a snotty mouth and no one else to talk to for a few weeks? I'll have to let the sweet little factory girls from next door who come over looking for a date with bad boy Spot Conlon know the next time they come a'knocking. Knowing they have no chance will be an easier let down than the one you give them the next day." She looked up at him, batting her eyelashes and smirking.

He grinned, and it was as if a huge rush of oxygen was suddenly let into his lungs as he blushed deeply. "Shaddup, Marta."


	29. Chapter 29

Trout couldn't look at the stranger wandering around the boarding house dressed as his friend. He moved his things away from the bunk they'd shared since they were just small boys and to the farthest bed away he could. He couldn't even make himself sleep on the top bunk anymore, Any time his hand or foot felt the open air while he slept, his mind went back to that eighth story window, staring up at Spot's blank face. Some nights, he couldn't sleep unless he moved his mattress to the floor. Some nights he didn't sleep at all, watching Spot writhe in his sleep or going down to sit outside of Marta's door, keeping watch over her the best he could.

Marta didn't seem to know how to act or who to be. When she let herself, the old Kisser, her loud laugh and wicked tongue would come out and have all the boys in either stitches or shaking in their boots, but, just as quickly, her eyes would go sad and wide and she would retreat to her room or walk out the door, not stopping until she reached Most Holy Trinity. The first few times, he followed her, but when she just went to confession or sat in the church day after day, hour after hour, he stopped and let her be.

He sat his own silent reverie at the front desk of the Lodging House, just hoping no one would come to the door while he tried to make peace with everything that had happened. As usual, his wish didn't come true. A soft knock was followed by the door opening a crack. "Hello?" a familiar, soft but gritty voice called in. Darcy's blonde head peeked around the door and she smiled. Her dress and her coat were simple but new. The bruises on her face still looked just as angry as all of theirs did though. She tugged at her coat, looking so uncomfortable in her own skin that he felt bad for her. "Heya Trout," she said quietly. He stared at her through shadowed eyes and raised an eyebrow at her. She smiled shyly, "Can you help me find Spot, please?" He sighed and swung his legs off the desk, wincing at the tug of the stitches the tiny girl in front of him put in his legs. Waving her forward, he led her to the stairs, stopping in the bunk room.

Spot's coat and hat hung together on the wall, his boots lined up below. "You know how much he talked about you when he was with me?" she asked as he pulled the grey wool blanket off of Spot's bunk and folded it carefully. "He said you was like his brother, told me about all the trouble you two used to get into as kids." She was pretty when she talked about him; the smile actually looked happy. "He trusts you with his life, you know that?" He looked up at her through his eyelashes as he handed over the blanket. They stopped, just staring at each other for a moment. "But that isn't everything, is it." Her voice was soft and sad.

He moved his hands, knowing she had no way to understand what his gestures meant. 'It's your turn,' he signed. 'I can't.' The strange feeling of understanding in the gray-green mist of her eyes pulled at his heart. He had to get rid of her. He beckoned her to follow and led her to the stairs up to the roof. Though he knew he should go down, he sat on the top step and watched her move tentatively across the rooftop.

Spot sat in the corner, no coat despite the small, icy snowflakes that the cold wind pelted him with. His feet were stockinged and his big toe stuck out of a hole in them. He didn't see her; he was lost in his thoughts. She stood silently watching him for a few moments, hoping he would notice her. When he didn't she called to him softly, "Spot?" He jumped to his feet ready to fight and breathing heavily. Trout's heart was slamming against his eardrums. He could hear it and feel it in every inch of his body. Only Darcy could understand that fear, because she was the only other person who had tried to tame that beast. She didn't dare move until he straightened up. He was panting and sweating despite his purple lips and cold nipped face. "You ok?" she called from her place by the roof access door, still afraid to step forward.

"Yeah,"he groaned, sinking back down. She approached cautiously ad plopped his grey cap onto his head. It didn't fit as well as the one he lost the day Niko attacked him and fell over his eyes. He righted it as she draped his coat over his shoulders and dropped the blanket over his lap.

"Whattaya doing up here all alone? Trying to catch your death?" she asked as she sat down.

Trout rolled his eyes, knowing exactly what Spot would say. His outbursts were always worse when it was cold. Like the chill pulled out that monster, but thanks to Mick, there was now nothing but monster left. Spot spent all of his time huddled on the roof. He always left when it happened, always had. He could remember waking up on cold nights when he was the new kid to find Spot out of bed pulling his clothes on in the dark. Everyone else was still asleep, even Kisser, who seemed to be awake anytime anyone else opened their eyes. Trout would sit up and watch Spot move, knowing something was off. Normally, he could see the thought in every move his friend made, but times like this, he would throw his limbs about, like one would slam a door. Trout would climb down from his bunk, but Spot whirled around and fixed him with a steely and frightening glare. "You ain't coming with me," he growled in a voice that chilled Trout more than the cold air outside the blankets. "You ain't gotta follow me everywhere, you keep away from me!" Before he could even react Spot would slam the window shut behind him as he ran down the fire escape. Trout was so confused. He knew he couldn't have done anything to make Spot mad, he was asleep, but he obviously did something. The sun rose on a cold, but sunny day while Trout tried to understand those few moments.

He played with his hat and stared at Spot's coat and hat hanging on his hooks on the wall, and his boots on the floor underneath while all the other boys filed out. "Trout!" Scat bellowed from the doorway. "Bells about to ring, getta move on!" Trout stood and turned, shuffling over to Scatter. "Jesus kid, whatssamattah? You got a face gloomier than a chimney sweep's this morning." Trout jerked his head over and Spot's empty bed. Scat smiled, rubbing his chin, "Yeah, he does that. Those dreams of his…they cut him deep sometimes and he needs to get away. Honestly, I'm surprised he's let you be glued to his side as long as he has."

Trout touched his pocket, which had become his sign for Spot after learning that he got the name from having his spot at Kisser's side where he grabbed her pocket when he was too little to sell by himself, and made the meanest monster face he could manage. Scat chuckled and patted his shoulder.

"He ain't mad, not at you. He just gets spooked. You'll probably see him in the yard and he'll be back to normal. I mean, don't expect an apology or nothing from the little bastard, but he'll be back to normal."

He took a deep breath, feeling very alone all of a sudden and reached out to grab Scat's hand, pulling him to the door without looking back at him. He was able to breathe again when Scat chuckled and returned the grip. When they returned to the lodging house after selling their second round of papers, all the boys were downstairs looking up at the bunk room. "What gives?" Scat asked.

"Spot's been out since dawn, no shoes, no coat. Kiss and Noakes are with him, but he's being a pill, even by his standards."

As if on cue, Spot's surly little voice yelled, "I ain't sick! Get offa me! Don't touch me!" There was a crash and a clatter before old, bearded Noakes stumbled out into the hallway, red faced and flustered.

He wiped his face with a handkerchief and muttered, "That youngin' has the Devil in him, I swear."

Kisser slipped out next, locking the door behind her. Her braid was unraveled and messy and she had red handprints and scratch marks down her face. Spot continued to throw his body against the door over and over again, screaming incoherently. Kiss looked up at Scat, her hazel eyes shiny with tears. "I don't know what's wrong with him. He knows me, he called me by my name, but he thinks I'm going to hurt him." She winced as the door behind her back rattled in it's frame with the force of Spot's body hitting it. Trout had never seen her look so shaken. Scat's face was stony, his jaw set and squared. "He's sure Noakes and I were trying to hold him down and hurt him, but we were just trying to put a blanket on him. He's blue. The things he accused us of, Scat…how does a seven year old even know about things like that? I didn't know about things like that!" The longer she talked the higher the pitch of her voice got and the more the words rushed out of her mouth as if she wasn't really in control of them. She wasn't normally one for tears and hysterics, but whatever Spot did or said had her thoroughly spooked and Scat reached out to her, wrapping one hand around the back of her neck gently and one around her waist pulling her into him tightly to soothe her.

Trout snuck past them and laid down on the floor in front of the door watching Spot's dirty, bloodied feet shuffle, stomp and kick through the crack. He knew how that felt, to have a hurricane blowing in his body and to be powerless to stop it, powerless to even contain who it hurt. That was how he felt in the schoolroom. He thought about how Kisser had held him and talked quietly in his ear to bring him back out of the storm and how she sang to Spot at night. He thought of that warm, full feeling he got earlier playing the harmonica. When he was so angry, he felt empty of everything but the anger and wondered if Spot felt empty too. He pursed his lips and let out a whistle, chirping out the tune of the lullaby that Kiss sang in the night. The hits and kicks and body slams slowed and then stopped and Spot slid down to sit against the door, breathing heavily. "I'll be damned," Scat whispered, while Trout continued to whistle the song. He felt them all watching him, his skin prickled with the feeling of all of the eyes on him. After a few minutes of silence, Spot also laid down on the floor and they looked at each other through the crack. His lips were blue, his nose red from cold and his eyes bloodshot. His slender fingers slipped under the door, reaching for human contact for the first time anyone could remember and Trout gingerly slid his in-between Spots. His fingers were like icicles, sucking the warmth from Trout's much softer, thicker digits, but Trout didn't pull away. He wished he could send more warmth through his skin and into Spot's.

He shook himself out of that memory. He was done always being the one sticking his fingers under the door. It was someone else's turn, and Darcy was willing to listen to Spot explain himself. "I like the cold, it lets me know what's what. And I ain't trying to catch nothing, just keeping my boys safe." Despite his words, he pulled his arms into the sleeves of his coat and pulled it tightly around himself. Trout had to stifle a snort.

She scrunched her nose, "Safe from what? Mick is gone; your boys is safe Spot."

"From me," he said in a voice that was more vibrations than sound. That stopped Trout. It was the first sign of his friend that he'd seen. She clasped her hands tightly in her lap to keep the one closest to him from seeking his to hold onto. Her fear that her touch would turn him feral again, that she'd end up alone on a roof with the beast that killed Mick, was palpable.

She rubbed her palms together and tried to change the subject, "Your face is healing good. The scar wont be too bad." His hand darted out from under the blanket and captured hers, drawing it in and sandwiching it between his icy palms.

"I dunno know how to do this," he mumbled, not looking up. He'd never sounded so young, or so lost or so broken, not in all the times they'd come out the other side of one of Spot's episodes."They all know what I did, how I was in there. They ain't looking at me the same. They used to respect me, now they's just scared."

"Me neither," she answered, placing her other hand onto of his. "My sisters expect me to be like I was when I left, but its not like I spent the last five years at finishing school doing needlepoint! Everything I say and how I say it is wrong. My mother looks at me like I'm a roach in the kitchen. She knows what I am now."

"What you _was_ never bothered me none. And you ain't doing it no more. You can do whatever else you want now, Kid." She loved that it didn't bother him and that he emphasized 'was'. It was a solid truth of their…friendship. She was Mick's whore, paid in room and board, and he didn't lie. He fully believed that she could do whatever else she wanted now that she was free.

She sighed and rested her head against his shoulder and furrowed her brow, "You been eating? Your shoulder is like a plumbing fixture." He scowled at her as he wrapped a lanky arm and the flap of his coat around her and she dropped it.

"Trout won't even look me in the face. I can see it when I'm around, all he sees is me holding him out the window, or stabbing Mick. He can't find me behind what he saw at the tenement." It hurt to hear, but how could Spot not know? It had always been the two of them together, Trout at Spot's side. And now he couldn't stand being in the same room. Sitting this close on the rooftop, with the edge of the building so close was enough to make Trout nauseated.

She shrugged, unsure whether it was ok to tell him what she was thinking or not. "He feels things different than you do. Trust is important to him." Trout wondered how she knew that. She was so sharp and quick, but so deeply observant, it was unnerving.

"Trust is important to me!" he squawked, but pulled her closer rather than pushing her away.

"Shut up," she snapped. "Loyalty is important to you and that's different. Loyalty is a one was street, trust goes both ways." She giggled at the shocked look on his face. "It's gotta go both ways for him, Spot. You never really hurt him before, but now that you have, you's gonna have to show him that he can trust you again and that you trust him."

He sat, his mouth hanging open, his eyes wide and glassy. "Did you tell me to shut up?"

She smirked, "I sure did." She leaned into him harder, "And I'll do it again and again, anytime youse being stupid." He found himself smiling as he turned her hand over in between his. He kissed her fingertips, they were still warmer than his lips. He leaned down and drew warmth from her lips, her warmth was the only warmth he trusted. Trout couldn't sit anymore. He could watch Spot become loved, something he'd always wanted, while he felt more alone than ever.

Trout stumbled down the stairs and closed himself in the kitchen, tucking himself into the seat in the corner behind the worn little round table. He dug in his pockets, emptying their contents onto the tabletop. One harmonica, one notepads and three whittled down pencil stubs. Normally, he would play himself some music when he felt alone like this. The people he loved had a way of slipping through his fingers, doing things they said they wouldn't. Trout felt about music the way Spot felt about the cold. It told him the truth that he needed to hear. He flipped up the front cover of the notepad and pulled a worn photograph out. Her big eyes stared back at him, deep and dark. She wasn't the first, but she was the one who hit the hardest because he never saw it coming with her. He stayed where he was when she left, because he had Marta and Spot. At fifteen, he didn't think he could make it without them, but now...now things were different. In two years, she never made it back to him. Trout decided that it was time for him to look for her. It was time for her to come first, not Spot. Spot had Darcy; someone else to take over as main keeper and punching bag of the legend of Brooklyn.


	30. Chapter 30

Marta woke, ran a brush through her shorn hair before attacking it with hairpins to try to make it look like anything decent, dressed in her ladylike clothes and started breakfast for the boys. She woke them and sent them on their way to sell. She swept the floors and she scrubbed the washroom; she went through every bit of the mind numbing routine that made her happy only two weeks beforehand. As soon as she completed her morning work she left and caught a trolley to Williamsburg and stood outside of Most Holy Trinity. She stayed as long as she could outside the gates, sometimes entering and standing in the back until she had to go back to Poplar St. When she was home she stayed away from the boys as much as she could because when she was around them, she could feel them watching her, waiting for her to break.

While she was an empty shell, Spot spent any free time he had sitting on the roof, not really trusting himself to be around the other boys and Trout had almost completely sucked into himself. He hadn't spoken a word or made a hand sign since they returned. He hadn't really communicated at all beyond a stiff nod or a slight shake of the head. So when someone knocked at her door but didn't answer her flat, "Who is it?" except to knock again, she was interested. "Come on in, Trout."

He slipped in, hands in his pockets, head down, hair in his eyes. "How ya holding up kid?" she asked, but was answered with only a shrug. "Yeah, me too." She reached out and brushed her hand against his elbow and he leaned into it. "It feels like nothing could ever possibly be right ever again." He nodded, but then glowered past her for a moment before slamming his fist against the door and sliding down to draw his knees up to his chest. "What's going on in that head of yours?" she asked, sinking down beside him, her skirt a pool of deep green around her. "I'm not Spot; I've always needed help when it comes to you." His glare turned on her and intensified as she said Spot's name.

 _Gone,_ he signed. He jerked his head upward, _not Spot._

"What do you mean that's not Spot, of course it is," she admonished. Their friendship had been instant and lasting. Through all of Spot's bravado and swagger, Trout stuck around. Through other times when Spot's mouth and past got away with him, Trout never wavered, often showing what a fierce friend and a kind heart he was in those dark times. But this time was different. Spot went too far. What Trout experienced wasn't just an undeserved soaking or some verbal abuse. His best friend cut him deep, severing the trust between them.

He shook his head solemnly, paused and mulled over how to say what he wanted before making violent stabbing motions with his hand and then covered his face squeezing his eyes shut tightly.

"Your friend, the Spot you know, wouldn't kill?" He looked at her in wonder as she said exactly what he was thinking but couldn't adequately express.

"Nnnnnno ta…tu….trrrrrr'st," he muttered, shaking his head. He didn't trust Spot at all. "Ow….outta wwwi….wi…..wwwwwinnnn…"

"He threw it out the window, huh?" She leaned over putting her aching head on his shoulder and sighed. "I think it will be awhile before the three of us trust anyone." He pushed her elbow a bit so she'd look at him, pointing from his chest to hers and she melted. "Yeah, I trust you too." They sat, neither one moving to leave until he pulled a piece of paper from his pocket and handed it over to her with a shaking hand. She snorted, seeing Spot's chicken scratch. "Am I going to like this more than the last of his notes that you delivered?" His eyes looked too dark, not their normal cerulean as he stared hollowly back at her. "Hmmm, guess not." She pulled the note up to see it better and her stomach plunged.

Scat left her letters in their secret place and she never got them. She leapt from her seat and didn't stop running until she got to the trolley. The whole ride across the neighborhoods, her feet tapped impatiently, until she jumped off without waiting for the stop at Most Holy Trinity. The stump of the apple tree was still there, and the brick was still loose, just like it was when she was a girl. It pried away easily in a shower of dusty old mortar, but the hole was just an empty cavern. Her fingers clawed at the the mortar, hoping against hope that they were just a little deeper. "Not again, Scat," she whispered. "Don't lie to me again."

A soft hand pressed to her shoulder. "He didn't lie, Marta," a voice as gentle as the hand said. "I kept them for you. Come on inside." The hand slid to the underside of her arm and pulled her to standing before wrapping around her, below her shoulders. For once, she allowed herself to be helped and looked down into the rounded face of her old friend Constance. "I kept them safe," she assured and started to guide her into the convent where the sisters lived.

At the last moment, a stab of fear broke through the numb fog of her mind and she dug her heels into the ground. "No! I can't go in there. They'll never let me out!"

"No one wants to keep you here Marta. Everyone who would still even remember you knows what an abysmal nun you would have made," Constance soothed with a smile. She waited for the cheeky grin or knowing smirk that the Marta she knew would answer such an accusation with, but Marta just stared at the door with wide eyes. She couldn't go in there. She was dirty and guilty. The eyes of the saints in the stained glass seemed to glare at her, condemning her. "Marta?" Constance called. "Come inside with me so I can give you Scat's letters. They've waited so long for you to ask for them." With a trepidatious exhale, she allowed Constance to lead her inside the building that was her prison as a child. Constance got the letters out of her tiny little room and put them in Marta's hands before taking her to the kitchen. "We can warm you up and have some tea while you read." Marta didn't miss the frown on her friend's face. "I don't want you reading those alone." While Constance bustled around the small kitchen, Marta untied the twine holding the packet, but dropped the letters to the floor when soft, worn wool brushed against her fingertips.

It was the ugliest wool stocking cap ever knit by human hands, lovingly put together with the scrap ends of skeins of yarn collected over a few months as the girls at the convent school finished other knitting projects. It was filled with dropped stitches, knots and holes, as the different yarn bits worked around. Constance smiled as she stood up from gathering the scattered papers. "I thought we were going to go blind or burn the place down making that. Do you remember?"

Marta nodded slowly. "Fall came early that year and Scat gave his hat away to a littler kid," she answered. "I tried to sneak out one of the ones they had us knitting for the prisoners, but I got caught."

"As usual," Constance chuckled, wrapping her arm around her friend and looking over her shoulder. "While you were in seclusion, no doubt, praying for forgiveness like you were supposed to," she gave Marta a sidelong look that made her laugh, "I started stealing everyone's ends and hiding them. When you were released, we knit by candlelight under your bed until we fell asleep on the floor."

Marta snorted again, "It was really just dumb luck that we didn't start a fire or poke out an eye on our knitting needles."

Constance touched the fuzzy wool. "I remember when I pulled it out of the mailbox a few years ago. I cried that he kept it so long, and that of all the silly things to take to remember you by, he took the ugliest hat, made by the worst knitters at Most Holy Trinity." She watched as Marta pulled the fabric to her face and inhaled deeply, pulling the last traces of his scent from the fibers. Amazed that after all the years, it still smelled just a bit like him. Her thumbs ran over the knots and yarn ends that poked out.

A simple knit hat broke the dam that held the fog of sadness over her and all of the feelings that she wasn't ready to feel yet came rushing forward. "Why did he forgive me?" she sobbed, grabbing Constance's sleeve and holding on like the floor was dropping out form underneath her. Constance didn't let her fall, holding her tightly and letting her cry until she had nothing left in her and then putting a warm cup of tea in front of her to drink while she read through the letters.

Some were so full anger and bitterness that she couldn't bear to read them, and some were nearly incoherent, like maybe he went and wrote them after drinking too much. She could just imagine him sitting there against the fence, stinking drunk and trying to write to her. He wasn't the best reader or writer to begin with, most mornings she read the headlines to him so that he was hawking improved headlines and not completely bogus ones. But the alcohol brought down the front of being one of Mick's and little bits of the love he still felt for her, right to the end seeped out onto the paper in his messy hand.

 _Kiss_

 _I could just throttle you right now. How couldya? Telling all dem guys that I'm nuthin without you? I thought you loved me, but you stabbed me in the back! Who the hell am I kidding, huh? I'd run home to Poplar and be with you in a heartbeat if I could. This place- it's scary as hell. I never felt more like a piece of meat in my life. Mick is crazy and all he wants me for is to ask about you. Please stay away. He don't want you for anything good._

 _Scat_

Then she came across one dated durning the strike, and her heart broke.

 _Kisser,_

 _I hope you's somewheres else walking in the grass with no shoes on. Three days ago I was fighting Spot at the World building. He ambushed the ambush that the bosses at the World planned for da boys. It was crazy. He knew me and I knew him and I had to go after him. Kids a maniac when he gets fired up. Tonight we got called to bust up their rally at Irving Hall. I was the reason Trout got hauled in by the bulls. I'm the reason his arm got broke and I'm the reason he didn't get put with the other Brooklyn boys. Everything I touch just turns to shit. They hauled him away and I lit it out a there and came here to talk to you. This don't make no sense. This has been the worst week in a long time, second only to the week I lost you._

 _Scat_

She crumpled it in her hand and tried to discreetly wipe a tear away as she stared out the window. She tucked it back into the packet and pulled out another. She couldn't stop the tears as she read. They splashed down onto the paper, smearing the ink, but his words made her smile and cry at the same time as he told her about a dream he had. "You really were brilliant sometimes," she whispered. "You always knew just what to say when I didn't know what to do anymore. Rest easy, Stupid." Constance chuckled at the old insult of endearment. Marta stood and wiped her eyes before gathering the letters back up and tying the twine around them carefully. "Thank you, Constance. You really have lived up to your name, you know. I'm going to miss knowing exactly where my friend is."

"Miss me?" Constance asked. "Are you going somewhere?"

Marta smiled and tucked the letters in her coat pocket. "I'm free. I don't have to stay here waiting for him to come to his senses, or wait to keep the boys safe anymore. I'm going to find the life I always thought I'd have with Scat. Bare feet, green grass, babies to chase…everything I always wanted. I'm going to have happiness, because this is the only life I have and I know that I can fight for it and win. I'm not going to waste another minute of it waiting for what I want to come to me."

She left the convent with a spring in her step, maybe even a little skip and twirl, dancing in the streets of Brooklyn for the first time in a decade. She would never go by Kisser again, but the girl who ran Brooklyn was alive and well within her freed heart.


	31. Chapter 31

"Where the hell is he?" Spot asked irritably. There were too many people around, brushing by him, pushing him out of the way. He could feel Marta starting to watch him nervously. He could feel his shoulders twitching and raising without his permission, his neck bending to rub the buzz in his ears away. Every day was bad, but most days everyone left him alone. It was a thousand times worse trying to contain that force within him with the added noise of the awakening train station.

They were headed west, without so much as a goodbye. She left her notice under the door at the Children's Aide Society in the middle of the night and gathered her things before returning for her lost boys. He startled from his haunted slumber when she shook him awake, narrowly missing clocking her in the jaw. When he was calm and Trout was at her other side, she shoved train tickets into their hands and told them to get ready. They looked at her like she was crazy, but her giddy excitement was contagious and soon they were stuffing their few belongings into their pillowcases. She blew almost all of her savings on those tickets, leaving enough for a few months rent when they got to wherever felt like home.

Spot nearly jumped out of his skin when Trout's pillowcase hit his foot. He'd been holding a small notepad, but quickly shoved it in with his things to look up. Trout didn't meet his eyes, just made a quick gesture. "Cover you?" Spot asked quietly. "Where the hell you going? The train leaves in an hour."

"Mmmmmmmmeet you," Trout answered in that ashamed mumble that Spot had only heard a few times over their decade long friendship.

It was the most they'd communicated in the days since they left the tenement. Spot wanted to apologize a hundred times over, but he didn't know how to start. What could he possibly say that would make anything any better? "Sorry I held you out a window, called you a retard and laughed when you almost died….we good?" No. There were no words that could make up for what he did, or for what he almost didn't do for Marta.

Spot looked down at the bag that hit his foot. 'Hold that,' Trout ordered, pointing at it. He was out the window and down the fire escape before Spot could say anything else.

He and Marta waited for him at the Lodging House as long as they could and the anxiety of not knowing where he was or what he was doing started the twitch that soon bloomed into something hard to contain. Marta had to coax him to the station, and they both breathed a sigh of relief to find him already standing there. "I was starting to think we'd have to leave without you," Marta said, holding him close. Trout's ease with her affection always unnerved Spot. He was jealous, but at the same time wondered how Trout stood it.

Trout shifted on his feet nervously. His cheeks turned red as he raised a hand to rub at the back of his neck. His lips twisted into a sad sort of a smile. "I….I ssssss'ay," he stammered. "Ssssssss'ay hhhhhheeeee…..heeeee-ahr." They were still sorting through the broken syllables when he stepped aside to reveal the tiny blond in a green coat that his large frame had been hiding from them.

Darcy smiled brightly enough that all of the bruises that still discolored her heart shaped face seemed to blur and fade. "He wants to stay; he said he has someone to look for and he won't leave her just yet, but I'd sure like to get the hell out of here." Her eyes pleaded with Spot's and it took everything in him not to rush her, gather her in his arms and hold onto her until the howling and itching his his head quieted. She could make it so that every person pushing past him was in less danger. But he was Spot Conlon and Spot Conlon didn't need anyone. Even if Spot Conlon knew what utter bull shit that was.

"Trout?" Marta asked, her hazel eyes tearing up. She fidgeted and grabbed for a long tendril of hair that no longer hung down her back. "You won't come with us?"

He shrugged, staring at his boots before motioning to Darcy. "If I hadn't come, he would go with you," she explained for him, with a sad smile. Somehow she understood how hard this was for him even after spending almost no time with him and he was brave enough to tell her, if only on paper, what he needed. Any woman who could draw that kind of faith out of Trout deserved a medal, and Spot's admiration. "He told me Spot needs someone, but he doesn't think it can be him anymore." Spot cringed at the insinuation as Darcy turned to Marta, "He doesn't want you alone with Spot either and he figured I could handle the two of you." Her face went stiff and dark, her eyes going stormy grey instead of their normal watercolor green. "I can't stay here either. If you don't want me, I'll go it on my own…"

"No!" Spot yelped, leaping forward to yank her into his arms as he battled the waves of possessive fury that the animal was overwhelming him with. He needed to hold her, needed to know that no one was going to take her away. He could feel her pushing him back, trying to loosen his grip on her, but he felt it as if he was wearing three coats. The sensation was muffled and guarded. Nothing was more important than keeping her. "He wants to leave; he can go!" he growled hostilely. The real him, the person now trapped beyond the thick barrier saw Trout tense and glare. He saw the hurt he caused and kept on causing, but didn't try to stop it. Trout made his bed long ago, now he could lie in it. He buried his nose in Darcy's hair and inhaled deeply, expecting the scent of lilac there to comfort him. It was gone, he sniffed over and over, looking for the scent that always accompanied her presence.

"Easy," she soothed, shifting in his arms to dig into her pocket. She dabbed a tiny amount of perfume on one wrist and his senses returned with the heady, sweet cloud. "We're gonna have to talk about weaning you offa this shit. I don't wanna have to smell like Mick's whore forever."

Spot was ready to jump on her for saying that name, but Trout's reluctant voice stopped him. "You…" he blew a breath out through his lips and looked up at the ceiling, as if asking for help finding the words he wanted. "Nnnnnnnnn…..nnnnneeeeeee…nnnneeeeeeeeed…hhhhhhhhhher." He smiled at Marta in a pained way. "Nnnnnnnnnot mmmmmmmeee."

"Trout," Marta pleaded. "I promised. Where I go, you two go too."

But he shook his head firmly. With his simple gestures that they'd all helped him come up with over the years, he signed, 'I stay. I wait. You go."

She nodded, her eyes filling with tears. "Ok. You wait. I'll send word to the Lodging House once we find somewhere to settle. You write me back and let me know that you're ok, you hear?"

He sulked a bit, but smiled through it as he growled, "Hhhhhh….hhhhheeeeeee-ahr fffffffffine." Trout stayed, watching over the three of them until the train pulled away. He didn't say anything to Spot and Spot knew better than to poke at him. He let the best friend he ever had out of his life without a word while a bleak, watery sun rose from the horizon and the train rattled away from Brooklyn. Spot and Darcy sat together on the one bench and Marta sat across from them, dozing as the motion of the train moving down the rails rocked him back and forth. The movement and noise of the train was almost enough to lull him to sleep, but he couldn't let himself fall over that edge. It wasn't safe for the girls. He had to stay awake for them.

Marta stared at Spot. They were all a sight, with their bruises and cuts that were in different phases of healing. There was no way for her to hide the vicious bite mark on her neck, even leaving her hair down didn't cover it and his face drew stares from all around the car. Little did they know that those stitches were the least of his injuries. He wondered if he would be forever a little more damaged because of Mick. Catching her eye, he curled his lips up in a sad impression of a smile and she returned it, looking to the tiny blonde who was curled up on the seat next to him, sound asleep. He stroked her hair absently and Marta couldn't help the real smile that graced her tired face. Him seeking out touch from someone else was rare, but he was always touching her when she was around, as if her touch kept him grounded. "I still don't get how he got her there," he murmured, looking down at Darcy.

She smiled. "He never planned on coming, but its not in him to argue. He's full of surprises, that one. Better than a circus illusionist. He pulled the same disappearing act the night that he found the Brownstone, only this time he slipped off and found Rudy's flat and managed to wake Darcy." Mad or not, he thought of Spot first, like he always did.

"Why wouldn't he come? It's always been him and me." He shifted uncomfortably and looked out the window, "He's the one who can always…"

"He can't live his life to be your shadow. It's time to let him stretch his wings a bit." He stared at her like a child who got slapped. He learned so many horrible things about himself that he didn't really seem to know what to do. It was so odd to see him vulnerable and brought down to human status. "The bad times will fade as we have better times, and you'll learn to let Darcy and I calm you down. Eventually, you'll get back to normal, like before."

He nodded, twisting a piece of Darcy's cornsilk blonde hair in between his fingers. He paled as an unpleasant thought rolled through his head. "What if I hurt you? Like I did him?"

The question had been weighing heavily on her mind for as long as they had been back from the tenement. What would she do if he attacked anyone? It broke her heart to say, but she knew what the right answer was. "I'll call the bulls on you." His attention snapped up and he looked at her in shock, but she stared back calmly, "If you lay a finger on either of us, I will have them come deal with you and then I'll come bail you out the next day." She smirked, "But just to be on the safe side, we'll make sure wherever we stay is on the ground floor. That way it will be a short fall if you decide one of us needs to go out a window."

"That ain't funny," he growled, glowering at her.

"Yeah, I know," she mumbled and stuffed her hands in her coat pockets. His eyes got wide as she pulled the key out.

"You didn't leave it for them?"

She smiled, "Nah, they don't need it. Its just some piece of junk that someone pulled out of the gutter and made up a story about anyway. Those boys can handle anything Brooklyn can throw at them. If the past few weeks served no other purpose, they showed me that Nips and Trout can do anything. They don't need a key around one of their necks to show the boys who the bosses are."

Marta put the key over her head and pulled out the packet of letters from the convent fence. She ran her fingers across the paper as she succumbed to the hypnotic vibration of the train. He watched over them, fighting his own exhaustion, unwilling to give the thing inside of him even a moment to take control. It was a losing battle until the letters fell to the floor at Spot's feet and he leaned over, careful not to disturb Darcy.

 _Marta,_

 _Sometimes I dream that we's out west like you wanted and we's real happy living in the country. But then I realize that I'm watching it all happen. I ain't part of it. The guy you is smiling at ain't me. He's some hayseed with a big smile and a lasso on his hip like in them penny novels for kids about cowboys and injuns. I hope you find your cowboy. I hope youse happier than I coulda ever made you, because you was the best thing in my life and you deserve the best outta yours. If you ever read this and yous still in Brooklyn, get out and go find all that stuff that we said we'd have and have it. Toes in the grass, a house that don't touch no one else's and a man who looks at you like I was dumb enough to stop doing. You deserve all of it, but with a man who don't take it for granted.._

 _Ted_

His eyes panned over Scat's staggering handwriting and he closed his eyes. "It would have to be a cowboy, wouldn't it," he grumbled, gathering the letters up and hunkered down to in his seat. Leave it to Scat to put ideas like that in her head. Still, he found himself hoping it was true. She'd put up with Scat's betrayal, done everything she could to help Trout and never gave up of him when everyone else around him did. If anyone deserved happiness with a farmer who looked at her the way that Spot would if he could, it was Marta. She deserved every happiness and he would make sure she got it. He vowed it, then and there, and Spot Conlon didn't make promises he couldn't keep.

A/N: This is it folks, the last real chapter. I have an epilogue to edit and then I will click the complete button on this bad boy! Hope you enjoyed my deranged musing as much as I enjoy writing them.


	32. Chapter 32

Marta gave up on love. She said it just wasn't practical to keep holding onto the hope that there was someone who would want a nearly thirty year old woman living alone with her brother and sister in law, but Spot made a promise on their trip out. He wouldn't let her down. So, when he came home from his job loading and unloading railcars with timbers to find Darcy and Marta feeding two little boys with blonde curls and brown eyes cookies, he was immediately interested. Full families didn't stay at boarding houses like theirs. He stowed his dinner pail on a nail by the door and went to the sink to wash his hands, glancing down at them through the corner of his silver blue eyes. "We taking in strays now?" he asked in a voice that was harsh and tough. His surly demeanor intimidated them and they stepped back. He smirked to himself. There wasn't much left of The King of Brooklyn, but it was nice to know he still had some piece of himself.

"Be nice," Marta warned, "their dad's a paying customer. Will and Jesse, my brother, Spot." He was so different here, the mountain sunshine and hard work soothed his soul. When she turned back, he had a mischievous smile on his face. "You two evah hoid of a sling shot?" Will perked up and stepped forward and Spot, seeing a familiar look in the kid's eyes, said, "All right, all right, blabbermouth, pipe down! I hear ya!" Will grinned and Spot couldn't stop himself from grinning back. "House rules is that youse gotta be able to tie ya own bootlaces in order to loin. Can ya?" He nodded emphatically and stuck his boot out to show the clumsily tied laces. Jesse hung his head, and all the air fell out of Will's sails. "He just has to practice and I'll teach him next time you come. Them's the rules, and you don't break Marta's rules." He glanced up at her in mock fear and she whipped the top of his head with the end of a dishtowel.

"Smartass," she muttered. "Help me with this wash water, and you can ask their father if you can teach him."

"Spot Conlon don't ask permission from nobody," he answered imperiously.

She whacked him again, "Get the damn bucket and get your ass upstairs with it!"

He shot a naughty grin at the little boys, before his turned on his mouth again, griping at the top of his lungs. "A man can't even kiss his wife around this place before he starts getting abused"

"No he can't!" she snapped. "Not when he's being a shit! Now get a move on!"

She followed him out as he heard Jess say, "I thought he was scary at first, but he's nice. She's a little scary though."

Darcy chuckled to herself and said, "Don't tell him that. It'll hurt his feelings if he finds out she's still scarier than him."

He stalked up the stairs with Marta hot on his heels. "Why ya following me, can't trust me to give wash water to the only occupied rooms in the house?"

"The father is in the blue room, you take that one." The blush on her cheeks didn't escape his notice as she snatched the second bucket from his hand.

He grinned roguishly, "Oh, he's a lookah, is he? My, my we's blushing mighty hard…"

"Shut up!" she squealed. "No! He's…their father and you have to ask him before you let them shoot things!"

"Shoah, Marta, shoah, keep telling yaself dat." He knocked on the door before she could make another comeback, and, just like he guessed, she hustled away down the hall. He was curious to see the man who had the woman that he truly thought of as his sister after eighteen months of saying it, and ten years of living it but never saying it, blushing like a schoolgirl with a crush. The door opened and he all but stopped breathing at the sight of the man before him. He had a face that naturally fell into a lazy sort of a smile when it was relaxed. He was bronze skinned, blonde haired and tall with a loop of rope hanging from his belt like a cowboy in a penny novel. Just like Scat said. "Wash water for ya," he growled, covering his shock with grit and anger and held the bucket out.

"Much obliged," the cowboy drawled, taking the bucket and beginning to close the door.

"Umm, them your boys downstaiahs?"

"They causing trouble?"

"Nah," he smiled, "When you grow up the way Marta and I did you got low expectations when it comes to good behavior." His smile faded as he cringed. What was the world coming to that Spot Conlon was going to ask another man permission to do anything? But especially shoot a sling shot? His pride screamed and squirmed melodramatically in his head as the next words came out of his mouth. "Me sistah said I hadda talk to ya 'fore I show da oldah one me sling shot." He groaned internally. That was every bit as degrading and painful as he'd thought it would be.

The cowboy's smile broadened, "I ain't seen one of them in a long time."

"Thanks, we'll be out back." He paused before he stalked away, "Me best friend, we grew up like brothahs, Marta raised us both, he pretty much couldn't talk. I saw it in da kid's eyes that he wasn't a big talkah." He suddenly realized he'd said way more than he intended to. It was true that the look in Will's eyes, that sad, misunderstood look reminded him too much of Trout, but why was he telling this guy that? Why did he say anything beyond, "does the kid talk?" He really couldn't say. Fletcher just looked so...nice! Something about him made words come tumbling out of Spot's mouth without his permission.

"Well, I guess that explains her asking if Jess is his mouthpiece," the man chuckled before he sobered. "He stopped talking when his mother passed."

Not only was he perfect for her, but he was a widower. Throwing motherless little boys Marta's way almost made this seem unfair, like catching fish out of a barrel. Like a poker game against Jack Kelly. "Yeah, so we'll be out back and no one will put an eye out or nothing."

"Yeah, that only happened that one time, right Spot?" Marta asked as she came back from the other room.

"Dat was not my fault!" he threw over his shoulder at her.

She blushed and stared into his smiling brown eyes, hoping Spot hadn't said anything too terrible while was with the elder Fletcher. Those eyes were a quagmire, a beautiful swamp where she could get sucked in, never to return. She didn't really want to return, but she was terrified that he'd find out her secrets and would push her away. "I'm sorry about my brother. He...isn't the best with people unless he's allowed to boss them around."

"No harm done," Fletcher drawled. "Frankly, I'm happy to see y'all take an interest in the boys. Its been a rough few days for them. A rough few years really."

She smiled, trying not to look into those deep brown eyes again for fear of getting sucked in. "I promise, there's no inconvenience. We like having people to be bad influences on."

"I can't imagine you being a bad influence," he said in that growly voice that sent shivers up her spine.

Her smile dimmed, "I'll let you get on with things before your wash water goes completely cold," she said stiffly. "Supper will be ready in an hour." She ran away with her face flaming. The men shook hands and the younger one stalked away downstairs.

She tried to stay away from him, but between the boys and Spot, they were always being pushed together and every time they were near each other that string that they both felt pulling them together seemed to gain another thread, giving it even more strength. When she wasn't doing her work, she was playing marbles and telling daring tales of boys who lived as a big family in a big bunk room and jumped off of tall docks into a muddy river. Fletcher was always near by listening in with interest.

On the last day they were supposed to stay in Denver, Fletcher ambushed her in the kitchen where she was just putting the coffee on. "I wonder if you want to come with me today?" he said slowly and nervously.

She smiled and swallowed loudly, "What did you have in mind?"

"Come to the auction with me?"

She laughed, "I don't know anything about cows!"

"No," he smiled that wide, lazy smile and she about melted, "but after three days of watching you charm my kids like the Pied Piper, I wanted a little of your charm to myself."

"I…I have a lot of work to do here."

"No she doesn't," Darcy said, sweeping in and putting a pan on the stove. "She's entirely free. Please, take her wherever it is that she's trying not to go."

Marta fumed, "Darcy!"

"What time do I need to have her ready?" Darcy asked, ignoring Marta's protest.

Fletcher was taken aback by the forwardness of the younger woman, but stammered out, "Um, eight thirty?"

"She'll meet you up by the desk, don't worry. Now, shoo, let us get breakfast cooked." He grinned in thanks at Darcy and went over to the stables to take care of his horses.

Marta's hands went haughtily to her hips. "What the hell was that? What are you playing at?"

"I'm just doing what you are too chicken to do. That man is a dream, your dream, to be exact and he's interested in spending time alone with you and you were going to pass it up for chores that you don't even have! I'm not going to let you screw this up. You ain't unloveable." Marta ground coffee beens with the hand crank, listening as Darcy talked, wishing that what she said was true. "Don't you feel it, Marta? You too keep staring at each other. You can't help who you love. Look at me and Spot. When we got married, he still barely slept and jumped at his own shadow and I was a whore. He never says 'I love you,' but I know he means it in other things he says. He always tells me the truth, even if its 'get out of my way before I hit you.' He's not always Prince Charming…or ever…but he always is truthful with me, and for me, that is love. I trust him and you need to trust that Fletcher is a grown man who can make his own decisions about exactly how much poor, broken Brooklynite he can handle. You don't get to choose for him." A smile lit up her face, that was so pretty with the extra pounds of happiness and pregnancy. "Now, turn the bacon, because if I get too much bigger, my belly is going to sit on the actual stove burner and then go put on a different dress. I'm begging you." Marta smiled sadly and kissed the top of the blonde's head.

She settled into the fantasy of the easy going cowboy's life as they walked. He and his father owned a two thousand acre spread of land. She was just letting herself relax and enjoy herself, when his stock came up to the block and she realized just how much money Winslow Fletcher made on his cows. Knowing nothing about cows other than they were where milk and beef came from, she didn't understand how most of that profit was to pay himself back for feeding and caring for them, she only heard the numbers that were being called out. Sums of money that were more than she'd ever seen in her whole life being made by this man who was interested in her. She waited until he was occupied with the auction cashier to sneak away.

In her room back at the boarding house, she watched from the window while Spot helped Will perfect his aim. Little boys, innocent little boys who wanted nothing more than a few kind words and a little attention, as always they were the balm for her battered soul. Spot eyed her cautiously as she stepped out, seeing the telltale signs that she'd been crying on her face and raised a brow. She shook her head and sat down on the steps next to Jesse who looked just as dejected as she felt. "What'sa mattah, kid?" she asked, laying the Brooklyn drawl on thick.

"Can't tie my boots yet," he answered unfurling his legs to show her his moccasins clad feet. "Don't even wear boots." A loop of rope like the one Fletcher had tied to his belt when they came in hung from his hand between his knees.

"What's that, you got there?"

"Lasso," his voice picked up in hopefulness and he raised his brown eyes, also just like his father's to her face. She was done for right then and there.

"You wanna show me how to use that thing, while those big boys play with their pea shooters?" He practically dragged her away from Spot and Will, immediately showing her that for a five year old, he was really skilled with that loop of rope, swinging it over his head in a wide swoop and then letting it go and roping the the waste bin in front of him time and time again. He talked her through it, showed her what to do and handed the rope over, but she was quickly tangled in it's loops. Again and again, Jesse showed her, but she never once got even close to the the trash bin. Spot and Will came over to join Jesse in laughing at her as she went to gather her rope again. Suddenly, she was on her duff being dragged backwards and all three boys were cackling hysterically. She hardly knew what was happening before she was very gently, a sharp contrast to the painful haul along the dirt road, lift to her feet and turned around to look into the smiling face of Winslow Fletcher. She smiled before she could stop herself, his face just so charming and wonderful to look at that she couldn't help it. He leaned in and his warm dry lips pressed to hers. She wanted to kiss back, kiss him for all she was worth! Fall down on the hard packed road and kiss him for all of the kisses she hadn't been given in her life, but when he pulled away, she didn't see his face. Those deep brown eyes were deep earthy green and his neat blonde curls were thick and messy and chocolate brown. A short sob squealed out of her throat and she slapped him hard. She slapped him for roping her, for kissing her without permission and for reminding her too much of Scatter. When her hand dropped, he was back to looking like Fletcher...Fletcher with a big red handprint on his face. A couple of deep breaths later, never unlocking her angry hazel eyes from his shocked brown ones, she wiggled free of the rope.

She couldn't do this. She would be destroyed if she hurt him. She would never recover if he left her. But, at the same time, after only a few days, she felt like her life would never be right without him in it and that terrified her. She was Kisser Gatcyk. She WAS Brooklyn. Brooklyn didn't need anyone. It didn't need love. A soft hand on her arm made her breath catch in her throat. "Marta?" he asked quietly. "You aren't hurt are you? I didn't mean to..."

"I'm fine," she snapped testily. "Go away Mr. Fletcher. You don't want to be messed up in my life. Go take care of those boys before Spot starts teaching them dirty words or something. Don't think he won't."

"Are you mad that I roped you? Or mad that I kissed you?"

Neither, she answered in her head. "Both! Now leave me be!" She groaned and buried her face in her palms. She was being pretty plain and he still couldn't take the hint. She was bad for him, bad for everyone. He needed to hightail his delightfully toned behind back to his beautiful land and stay the hell away from her!

But that hand on her bicep trailed down her arm, leaving fire in its wake until it covered her own. His hands were warm despite the cold air and rough from years of work. She found herself staring and them, at the dirt pressed into the grooves, at the cracks and ripped cuticles, and his immaculately clean nail beds, like he spent hours scrubbing them just to impress someone. "See something interesting down there?" he asked quietly. "Never thought I'd have to remind a woman that my eyes are up here." His kind, teasing voice sent shivers down her spine and she laughed. His blonde brow furrowed, not sure how to take her after all of her waffling.

"I'm sorry, I just...you can tell a lot about a man by his hands." He held his hand up, taking her's along for the ride since she couldn't seem to make herself let go, and inspected them both.

"You reckon?" he asked. "Well, Ma'am, what is it that you can see from these dirty paws?"

"Hard work," she answered, running her thumb over his knuckles. "Not much of a fighter..."

"Hang on now," he objected with that easy going grin still plastered on his face. "I can hold my own!"

She chuckled, "I'm sure you can, Fletcher..." She took a deep breath and considered her words carefully. "I'm just used to a different breed of man. The kind who gets through life on bloody knuckles and black eyes." He turned their hands over again, looking at her knuckles but not so much as raising and eyebrow to the scars there.

"Looks like you can hold your own too," he answered. He caught her in that warm quicksand gaze that sucked her in and held her still. That made her feel warm and safe, but that, in and of itself, made her panic. She couldn't do this. She couldn't give in. She couldn't ruin him too. So, she shoved him.

"I'm no lady, so if thats what your looking for you might as well beat it!" she spat. "I'm a girl that no one ever wanted, and I ruined the ones who tried. You should be smart and head back to your big beautiful ranch and forget about me." She gave him another shove for good measure and ran.

Fletch was a step behind her but Spot's hand on his shoulder stopped him. "You don't wanna do that," Spot said, staring after her. "Not unless you fancy the thought of a left jab straight to yer kisser." The cowboy stared, unfamiliar with the slang. Spot sighed in exasperation and scrubbed his face. "You mess with her when she's all riled up like that and you'll end up with a few less teeth in your head. You let me take this one." He clapped the blonde cowboy on the shoulder with a tight smile and took off after his sister through the dark streets, quickly gaining on her and grabbing her hand, pulling her into him and wrapping her tightly in his arms. "Stop! You can't keep running, Marta. Not from this," he whispered in her ear. He tipped her chin up so she'd look him in the eye, "A cowboy, Kiss. A cowboy with a big, dumb smile and a lasso…You can't tell me you forgot."

"Of course I didn't forget," she said, pulling her face away. She'd never forget that letter from Scat, the words were burned in the back of her eyelids. "That makes it even worse! It's what he wanted, and Fletch, he's perfect…"

"So, what more proof do you want?" he asked. "The motherless little boys and the house in the middle of no wheres with a million acres of grass for you to walk barefoot in aren't enough? What about the fact that he's so easy to talk to that you tell him your life story before you even realized you was talking? You can't run away from this! Brooklyn don't back down! Brooklyn don't run! You can't hide from this, not from a guy who practically has 'Fall in love with me, Marta Gatcyk' tattooed on his forehead. Give the damn cowboy a chance, Marta." He smiled and ducked so his face was near hers, "Just don't call him Cowboy. Evah." She smiled weakly, wiping the tears from her face.

"When did you get so smart?"

"I always been the smartest thing to come outta Brooklyn, New York. Just 'cause you's too much of a mush to appreciate my charm don't mean it ain't there. Now go, get back there and talk to him before that stupid smile falls off his face." He draped an arm over her shoulder and began to walk her back. "For the record, you never ruined me. I was ruined to begin with. You did nothing but make me better than the rotten piece I trash I am. I'd be dead a couple of times over if it weren't for you. So, don't sell yourself short."

She looked up at him in wonder before masking it and doing what they did best, "Awwwwww, Spot Conlon's turning soft on me! You big mush! What's going to happen when the baby gets here, huh? Are you just going to melt into a big squishy puddle?" He rolled his eyes and gave her a playful shove in front of him.

"Shaddup, Marta and go catch your man before he decides to rope someone else like a cow."


End file.
